


Hurt!Stiles tumblr prompts

by MelanieKS



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Asthma, Bed-Wetting, Bullying, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Delirium, Gen, Guilt, Hemophilia, Hurt Scott, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, Kidney Stones, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Pre-Slash, Rape/Non-con Elements, Seizures, Serious Injuries, Sick Stiles, Sterek if you squint, Stiles whump, Sub-drop symptoms, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Tumblr Prompt, Whump, infected wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieKS/pseuds/MelanieKS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>#1: Stiles has a panic attack at the hospital following Theo hurting his dad. Melissa is there to help him through it.<br/>#2: Stiles hides an injury from the pack. Derek is the one to comfort him when he collapses.<br/>#3: Stiles gets severely sick.<br/>#4: Stiles’ injuries are critical after Parrish flips his jeep.<br/>#5: Stiles has asthma instead of Scott.<br/>#6: Stiles wets the bed after his anxiety escalates. His dad is there to comfort him.<br/>#7: Stiles has a major panic attack and Derek has to talk him down from it.<br/>#8: Stiles is roofied at a club during a stake-out.<br/>#9: Stiles has hemophilia (blood doesn't clot) and gets injured.<br/>#10: Scott takes care of a delirious Stiles post s5a. Stiles lets the wound from Donovan go untreated.<br/>#11: Stiles has a seizure.<br/>#12: Stiles goes through symptoms of sub drop after the Nogistune. Derek is there to help.<br/>#13: Stiles is kidnapped.<br/>---</p><p>Warnings/tags will be posted with each prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. cut the rope and i'll fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Maybe Stiles completely breaks down in like an empty room of the hospital after seeing his dad bleeding out. Like maybe he has a really bad anxiety attack and his completely hurt and feeling alone and then Mama mccall can find him and comfrt him!_

_Condition is critical. We’ll know more after surgery._

Double doors swing closed with an ominous click. Sounds thrum alive around Stiles, throwing him in a somersault of over-stimulation with phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, elevator doors dinging—

He inhales a tremulous breath, noise sucked out, but all he can hear is the rattling of his breathing and the violent whoosh of blood pounding in his ears. He stares at everything and nothing, as he spins in a slow circle with an aimless purpose. The hallway outside the ER wing smears in a disarray of washed-out colors when his vision turns hazy. Blackness prickles at the edges, narrowing his sight with the threat of dimming all together. He rakes his hands through sweat-soaked hair, stops at the back of his head and pulls hard; uses the sharp pain to focus.

Dried blood cakes his skin, and cracks and flakes off.

Blood is all over him – his dad’s blood – on his clothes, his arms. He swears he can taste the metallic tang when he sucks in air through his nose; can still feel his dad’s weak pulse under the pads of his trembling fingers; can still hear him gurgle, trying to talk, but only blood spurts up over his lips.

_Condition is critical._

A foreign, broken sound spills out of his mouth, reverberating with a jaw-dropping and goggling reception from those nameless faces around him. He tugs harder on his hair, shakes his head before he stumbles along, clinging to the wall for purchase as he seeks seclusion from the piteous, searching stares.

He needs something, _someone_ to ground him, give him hope his dad will pull through after losing so much blood – _too much_ – but there’s nothing and no one in reach aside from unknown faces gawking at him. His world is crumbling beneath him and he has no way of holding on. His support system has disintegrated right before him and there are no pieces to pick up.

They’ve scattered in the whirlwind of damage Theo created in his wake.

Icy tendrils spread and bury deep in the marrow of Stiles’ bones. His ribs ache and then burn as the cage contracts around his lungs with the rising dread that seems a permanent occupant in his psyche as of late. It ebbed and flowed, but now it crawls up with a vengeance and Stiles suddenly jack-knives when he can’t _breathe_. The walls of his airway close up. His lungs shrink. His diaphragm won’t _move_ , and he slumps down the wall on the floor, gasping and frantically grabbing at his chest.

Hands catch him, hold him by the elbows and secure him when his reality tumbles down a steep slope, gaining momentum rather than showing signs of slowing. Small, gentle hands fit over his heart, one pressed to his cheek, and the warmth of those hands snap him back with a fierce gasp. He blinks up, vision still wavering through a watery wall of tears, but he catches a head of brown curls. Tears flow uninhibited when he hears his name through a familiar, placating voice. His body sags, sobs racking him with violent spasms. Melissa keeps one hand on his chest while the other strokes through his hair.

“Stay with me, Stiles. Stay with me. Breathe. That’s it. _Breathe_.”

“I can’t—“ He pants, desperate to catch his breath, but he feels as if he ran a sprint marathon in the middle of summer, uphill. Mouth is stuffed full of cotton, his throat raw. “I can’t…lose him. I can’t…not…him too.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. Breathe. Just breathe. It’s okay…”

He tangles his fingers in the lapels of Melissa’s jacket as she folds around him; holds him and rocks him as she continues soothing him with whispered words of strength and support. Half of what she says he doesn’t understand, but knowing she’s here and providing a sense of solidity that he desperately needs alleviates some of the pressure on his chest. Helps him focus and regain a semblance of balance with his breathing again. The gnawing fear is still there, the not knowing what will happen in that operating room or after scares the hell out of him, but he holds onto hope.

He holds on with every fiber of his being.


	2. it's just a flesh wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Maybe Stiles hiding a secret injury or exhausting himself to the point of collapse? Derek or Scott and the pack are there when it happens._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Involves pre-Sterek, mostly Stiles crushing on Derek.

Stiles can be called obstinate, a stubborn son of a bitch with an annoying streak as wide as the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, but he will not be called weak. That is a term he can’t associate in his vocabulary, not after his life took a sudden left turn from the normal street and straight into the darkened and creepy alley of bat shit crazy supernatural.

Being human has its side effects, though when running with werewolves, fighting supernatural baddies left and right, with only his brain and baseball bat as a weapon. There should be a disclaimer that warns about all the injuries and near-death experiences one will encounter on a weekly basis before signing up, but Stiles doesn’t regret it. He loves the thrill. He lives for the danger when his heart accelerates with the surge of adrenaline and his mind jumps into overdrive as he tries figuring out the latest mysterious series of deaths or attacks.

Google is his bitch.

He is useful in a way that doesn’t need claws or super-human strength and he prides himself on that accomplishment. He prides himself on the fact that he’s still alive since he can’t count on both hands the amount of times he has been threatened or attacked, supernatural and human alike, in the last year alone.

Too bad his latest injury didn’t happen because of his moonlighting job of keeping the town of Beacon Hills safe from the supernatural. He walked away – or rather limped – from the last Lacrosse game with a few bruised ribs when the biggest opposing player he’s ever laid eyes on decided Stiles was prime pickings for a full-on body slam into the ground. At the time, he waved it off and kept playing. Soon realized his ribs may be more than bruised, but hell if he is going to jack up yet another bill at the hospital for x-rays and pain meds.

Letting his pig-headed mentality get the better of him, he goes two days ignoring the persistent and stabbing sensation that he can’t get enough air in and out of his lungs, while running around wielding a baseball bat, fighting off a family of wendigos in the preserve with the pack. Of course, Scott and Derek chock up a bunch of stupid reasons why he should stay behind, because he’s human and vulnerable and _bullshit_.

Just because his mortality rate is not as fortunate as a werewolf’s with super-fast healing doesn’t make him incapable of helping. Proves that point when he intercepts one of the wendigos before she can latch onto Derek from behind while he’s busy dealing with daddy dearest. Despite the feeling of a dragon breathing fire in his chest, he swings the bat and almost takes the girl’s head off. He woops and aims between her shoulder blades when she tries getting back up. She stays down long enough for Derek to take over after he has dealt with papa wendigo.

Stiles watches with an odd fascination how Derek fights. The fluidity and power he possesses is no doubt the sexiest thing Stiles has ever witnessed.

He puts all his weight on the bat propped up like a cane, trying to catch his breath, but he can’t pull a good long inhale before pain sparks and he is gasping with a hiss. His vision wavers and dims. Without movement to keep his blood pumped full of adrenaline, his ribs radiate all kinds of _badwrongpainholyshitthishurts_.But he shakes it off, shoves the pain down, and keeps moving.

Derek shoots him a suspicious glare in the midst of holding down the teenage wendigo with a hand around her throat, but Stiles dismisses it with a wave and joins Scott at the far end of the clearing where he has subdued mama wendigo. Isaac is still busy with the oldest sibling and he is having way too much fun circling his prey, snapping and growling, wielding his claws. Stiles can see the appeal to being supernatural. All that strength and power would definitely give one a sense of superiority.

Once the flesh eating Brady Bunch is defeated, the high crashes with the momentum of a semi ramming into a small car at 80 miles per hour. Stiles feels every ache and pain as if he’s surviving the torture of going through a meat grinder. Not only is his chest ablaze with each hitched, shallow breath he takes but muscles he didn’t know he had cramp and throb with the slightest of movement.

But far be it for him to admit he’s injured. He won’t take pity from a bunch of werewolves who already see him as a fragile sack of bones. He is not—

He doesn’t feel it when he face plants on the ground.

When he comes around he sure as hell feels the new ache starting from his nose and spreading like an unbearable sinus pressure headache that makes him want to throw up. He can’t get air through his nostrils, which feel the same as when he was four and he shoved M&Ms so far up his nose Claudia had to rush him to the ER.

Well damn, this is embarrassing.

With the added bonus of a broken nose along with his battered chest drags an involuntary moan out of Stiles. Then the throbbing ebbs the instant hands too warm to be human press against his forehead and clasp his hand. He blinks Derek’s face into focus and swallows a glob of blood draining from his nose, chokes on it and somehow finds that hilarious. He coughs around a bitter laugh, but stops short when his ribs complain.

“Hey,” he murmurs through a loopy smile, waddling in a lazy sea of painless bliss. The special effects werewolves have with taking pain should be considered an illegal drug, because Stiles definitely feels like he’s high and he does not want to come down. “I pass out?”

“Fainted. Like a pansy,” Derek says. His brows pull together, forming that little scrunch between his eyes that Stiles finds so damn endearing. The lines of worry chisel his face like some Adonis sculpture in Italy, and damn, why does he have to be ten times more attractive when he looks like he’s shitting a brick? Stiles doesn’t get the logic behind it, but he’ll take it.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had broken ribs?” Scott asks, hovering behind Derek with Isaac.

Stiles tries lifting his hand but it flops back down. His muscles are too heavy for anything. His eyelids even hurt. Is that a thing? Can that happen? He opts for just staring up at Derek and letting this rare moment of Derek coddling him sink in. Maybe he should get injured more often so he can have Derek worry over him.

“They—they weren’t broken…when it happened. Well, I don’t think they were…” His voice is hyper-nasal and wet, and the sound is pathetic and funny at the same time. He’d laugh, but he doesn’t have the strength for it.

“That doesn’t justify letting it go without saying anything,” Derek replies, but his touch remains tender and contradicts his chiding tone.

“Eh, minor detail.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m fine. Stop fussing,” Stiles slurs.

Derek’s brows fly up, and really, those things have a personality on their own. He grumbles more obscenities under his breath along with _idiot_ and _stubborn_ , and loops his arms underneath Stiles to pick him up with the gentleness of a mother bathing her newborn child. Stiles objects with a curse, slapping at Derek’s resisting wall of muscle, but he stills with a sharp and trembling hiss when his ribs scream at him to stop moving.

Still, he says, because he is not about to give up on that stubborn streak that easy: “Nah, lemme go. I can walk.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital and calling your dad.”

“No, no…” Stiles searches for Scott and pins him with a pleading stare. “Call your mom. Not my dad. He’ll blow a gasket, dude.”

“He’s going to notice your face, Stiles. Your nose is swollen the size of a football,” Scott argues, mimicking Derek’s brow furrow, but he just can’t pull it off as pretty.

Derek carries Stiles back to the car and grounds out, “Here’s a good story: Mr. Stilinski, your son is a stubborn SOB. He’s disregarded an injury to his ribs because he has a complex that he thinks he’s fucking Superman, and finally passed out, breaking his nose in the fall.”

“Not Superman.”

“Damn right.”

“I’m Batman.”

“Stiles, shut up.”


	3. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _i would love to read some severely sick stiles. most sick fics are just about colds but if you could write something a little more... exciting? ^.^_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full of Stilinski family feels, because who's better to take care of Stiles when he's sick than his dad?

A soft _taptap_ on the doorframe of his bedroom pulls Stiles’ gaze away from staring at the wall to his dad standing in the threshold. The wrinkles around his dad’s mouth and eyes crease deeper and his brow scrunches with that patented look of parental concern, yet he hesitates stepping further inside the bedroom, in case Stiles wants privacy. Because, of course, he’s a teenager and having your dad snooping around can be weird sometimes. But Stiles craves the consoling attention, could really use some soothing attention of his dad caring for him, telling him it’s going to be okay, like he used to do often when Stiles was a kid and they had no one but each other. When Stiles couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares or when he had panic attacks. He craves his dad’s strength and solace, rocking him to sleep, while retelling the story of how he met Claudia.

“Hey, bud. Why are you still in bed? Don’t finals start today?”

Stiles curls into a tighter ball around his middle, tucking his chin close to his chest, and a grimace screws his face as sharp pain flares with the movement. “Stomach…hurts.”

That’s a harsh understatement. His back and groin are on fire and waves of nausea only get more violent with each passing minute. Clothes and hair are drenched with a cold sweat. He’s freezing, yet he’s burning up, and he can’t get comfortable. Shivering hurts. Breathing hurts. Talking hurts. He’s opted with remaining as still as possible, keeping his breathing deep and steady, or else he’s going to ruin the carpet with whatever is in his stomach. He doesn’t doubt what will come up is just acid, because he hasn’t eaten much of anything in the last two days. The pain radiating around his kidneys has steadily grown to a level of intense that he can’t even put a rating on; it’s well past ten. If he moves an inch, he’s going to scream and then vomit and then pass out.

He hears the soft rustle of clothes as his dad nears and squats down beside the bed. Feels a cool, gun-callused hand press against his flushed forehead and he leans into the touch with a mewling sound scraping out of his throat.

His dad lets out a low hum filled with apprehension. “You’re burning up, kid.”

Stiles doesn’t open his eyes; it’s too much effort. “Nnn.”

“Stiles,” his dad says with that authoritarian urgency in his voice; that tone he gets when he’s at work assessing a crime scene and asking questions, but still laced with compassion. “Where does it hurt?”

He mumbles something along the lines of “everywhere” but it comes out as a slurred, garbled mess. His dad sighs, not out of annoyance but care, keeping his hand on Stiles’ forehead. Strokes back damp hair as he rubs his thumb like a caress along Stiles’ temple. It eases him for a short time, but then his stomach convulses with a violent surge and he can’t hold back from throwing up on the sheets, the floor, and almost on his dad. Those good reflexes after being a cop for so long has his dad lurching back before he’s splashed with puke.

Stiles cries.

He can’t hold it in and he sobs like a small child. Every inch of his body screams in agony and he tries burrowing into a tighter ball around himself, but it hurts so damn much. Everything hurts and he’s scared; feels as if a red-hot poker is driving into his back, over and over, without a minute of relief.

“Okay, okay… It’s all right, bud. Shhh, it’s okay.” The edges of panic line his dad’s voice, but he jumps into action without another moment of delay. He provokes a deep, grating moan from Stiles as he picks him up and carries him out of the room. Stiles clutches the front of his dad’s uniform and cries against his chest, deep and dry sobs shaking his body. He doesn’t want to let go when his dad eases him down in the bathtub and starts running lukewarm water over him; still clinging to the thin cotton despite the instant balm against his clammy, feverish skin. But the pain is more relentless and he moans.

“It hurts…”

“What hurts, Stiles? What hurts?”

“M’ back.” Stiles heaves around a new set of tears he can’t stop, even as the sobs rip new lines of pain through his abdomen and back. He can’t catch a break either way. “E-every…thing. But…m’ back the most.”

“Your back?” His dad’s hands maneuver behind Stiles and feel around, probing, but he’s gentle about it. “Where… Here?” He touches Stiles’ lumbar region around his kidneys and he flinches with a choked hiss. It feels like a gigantic monster clawed his entire lower back and is now a huge ball of raging fire.

“Yes! Ah...”

His dad sucks in a sharp breath, but he remains calm and clear-headed as he pulls out his phone. Stiles hugs his arms around his stomach and rocks forward, dousing his head underneath the spray of warm water. Hears his dad muttering and cursing about kidney stones, and if that’s what Stiles is experiencing just shoot him now. Put him out of his misery, please. There’s no way he will survive those tiny calcified rocks passing. No thanks. He’d like to get off the agony train now.

“I’m calling Melissa.”

Stiles nods under the spray of water and then pitches forward as his stomach somersaults and he throws up again. He peels out a pathetic groan as the disgusting, acidic taste coats his tongue and he gags. Then watches with a sort of weird, muddled interest while the tiny clumps of what he hopes is food – because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it – rush toward the tub’s drain between his feet. No doubt he’s delirious as he finds it fascinating. Catches his dad explaining the symptoms he’s having, while keeping a firm, comforting hand on the back of Stiles’ neck as he retches a third time.

“Okay, kid we’re going to the ER. Melissa has a bed waiting for you,” his dad says after ending the call. He stuffs his phone away and starts undressing Stiles. It’s awkward for him to have his dad unclothe him and see him naked, but he shoves that small nag away and appreciates his dad’s help. He can barely lift his arms or legs; the sickness has drained every bit of his strength and he’s just a floppy noodle dangling from a spoon.

Stiles murmurs out some lame protest about another hospital bill they can’t afford, but his dad ignores him as he pulls the sodden t-shirt over Stiles’ head. He turns the faucet off and dries Stiles with a towel using a comforting gentleness that helps lull Stiles away from the constant stream of pain. At least for a small moment, and then Stiles whines when his dad leaves to retrieve a clean bundle of clothes. The shivers attack him again, and he can imagine how pathetic he must look huddled in a towel and teeth chattering in the middle of the bathtub. He’d laugh, but it hurts too much.

There is no indecision with how his dad works, efficient and practiced while under pressure, even when that heavy weight of anxiety is because of his son. There’s an edge in his voice and his hands shake as he helps Stiles out of the tub and into oversized sweatpants and shirt, but he compartmentalizes what Stiles imagines is panic writhing beneath the surface.

His dad supports most of his weight as they descend the stairs and leave through the garage where the cruiser is parked. Stiles buries underneath a blanket in the backseat and shuts his eyes, riding the rolling surfs of nausea as best he can while his dad speeds like some racing maniac toward the hospital; uses the special privilege as Sheriff to run the lights and sirens all the way there. Several times Stiles was sure he’d throw up whatever the hell he had left in his stomach. Might end up tossing up his intestines instead, wouldn’t that be splendid?

Melissa is already pulling the backdoor open before Stiles’ dad can get out of his seat after stopping the cruiser beneath the ER bay. Stiles stares up at her from beneath the hem of the blanket wrapped around him. He tries giving her a smile, as he’s always glad to see her, but fails.

“Oh, sweetie…”

She soothes back his wet hair and starts whispering nonsensical words of comfort as Stiles’ dad scoops him in his arms and carries him; Melissa’s hand doesn’t leave his forehead. Not even when he’s placed on a stretcher and wheeled inside and a flurry of nameless faces crowd around him, blocking out most of the fluorescent lighting burning his retinas from above. Melissa’s voice rises above the din as she barks orders for a CT scan and an IV drip. Her hand lowers from Stiles’ forehead and tightens around his hand.

His dad, where’s his dad? He can’t see him—

“Dad…” he croaks, reaching up and back, craning his neck around. His throat feels like a sandbox was dumped into his mouth, his tongue swollen and dry. The panicked movements send tendrils of fire through his back and stomach and he cries out, “Daddy!”

Warm and rough hands grasp his and a flood of relief eases Stiles back down on the gurney. A new trail of tears slips down the sides of his face. He squeezes as hard as he can with a silent plea for his dad not to leave him.

“Right here, bud. Right here.”

“Hey, sweetie?” He blinks Melissa’s face into focus when her head of curls leans in his line of sight. He catches the tight smile creasing the age lines around her eyes and mouth. “It looks like you’ve got some nasty kidney stones, hon, but we’ll need to take a scan to make sure and see how big they are. We might need to break them down, but you won’t be awake for that. I’m going to give you something for the pain and fever. How does that sound?”

He nods, swallowing, and feels the sharp prick of a needle on the underside of his arm and the cool rush of liquid pushed into his veins. It doesn’t take long for the painkiller to work its magic and Stiles drifts on a weightless cloud freeing him of the burning agony devouring every nerve ending in his body. His eyelids drag up and then droop down as the heaviness of sedation swoops him under and he welcomes it.  

====

Stiles wakes up in random stages of confusion and time lapses with a heavy, drug-laden fog clogging his brain. At first, he doesn’t know where he is, but before he can think about that problem he’s pulled back into a deep, dreamless sleep. Hours or maybe days later, he doesn’t know, he opens his eyes again with an unfamiliar woman in blue scrubs checking his blood pressure and pulse. She smiles down at him and shushes him to rest.

Hospital.

Right, now he remembers.

An instant flood of gratitude for the slow and controlled stream of morphine pumping into his system by the IV drip drags a sigh past his chapped lips. He closes his eyes. The nurse’s tender ministrations calm him and he falls asleep, doesn’t even fight it. The next time he comes around, lying on his side, he finds his dad sleeping in a stiff-backed chair; head tipped back, mouth open, and snoring. Stiles lets him sleep, though his dad’s body will complain about the prolonged position later.

Talk about sore. His back and groan are tender, as if bruised, but hurts nowhere near as bad as it did. The jagged stabbing pain is gone and replaced with a dull ache that doesn’t leave him queasy. Thank God. He tries ignoring the fact that he has a catheter jammed inside of him, but the humiliation still burns his cheeks.

He peers around the small room from his vantage and spots the food tray cluttered with a collection of get well balloons, cards, and stuffed animals and Stiles smirks. One of them is a cute wolf plushy with beady eyes. He reaches his hand out and plucks the toy from the tray, looking at it closer, twirling the small plush in his hands with the grin tugging the corners of his mouth wider. Wonders who brought this by—

“Hey, kiddo…”

Blinking up in surprise Stiles watches as his dad stretches cramped muscles and groans. Then pushes up out of the chair and draws closer to the bed. He places his palm over Stiles’ hand, smiling down at him and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Hey…” Stiles whispers and is all of a sudden parched when the air scratches past his vocal chords like coarse sandpaper brushed over a surface. He swallows with a grimace before a cup of water is handed to him, downs the liquid in one gulp.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He drinks more water after his dad refills the cup, his throat opening up with the refreshing moisture. “Kidney stones, huh?”

“Yeah, kid. Had a few that they had to go in surgically and break down, they were too big to pass.” His dad sighs, rubs at the spot above his brow before he squeezes Stiles’ hand. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Stiles snorts. “I scared the shit out of myself.”

His dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“Me too.”


	4. stay with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Stiles isn't actually okay after Parrish flips his jeep (because who the fuck would be?) and the pack later finds out that he is very injured and needs to go to the hospital._
> 
> This prompt took longer than expected, because in the beginning I had it where his injuries weren’t that bad, but then it turned into a beast and wanted more hurt and well… this happened. Can be viewed as Stydia, but I wrote it with the mindset of just appreciating their beautiful chemistry and nothing romantic.

Still reeling from the Doctors’ attack at the school, Lydia starts hearing the haunting and distinctive sound of a heart monitor flat lining. Quiet at first and then blares like a shrill warning bell clanging inside of her skull. Can’t explain it, but she immediately thinks of Stiles, though she protests against believing this prediction has anything to do with him.

Not five minutes later, they get an ominous text from Theo saying Stiles was injured at the vet clinic and to meet at the hospital. Lydia’s anxiety level tips a notch and her pulse pounds with the uneasy load of worry. This is inevitability she never wanted to face, never wanted to hear Stiles’ name linked with injury or even death.

Scott looks torn between which direction he should go: to the hospital or try finding Liam and Hayden. The responsibility as alpha bears down on his shoulders with a visible strain and Lydia makes the call. She tells Malia and Mason to go with Scott, while she heads for the hospital on her own – tries avoiding the fact that Parrish is MIA at the most inopportune time, but fails. She is pissed and she doesn’t hold back from telling him so on a voicemail.

Injured leaves a lot open for interpretation and she prays her banshee powers are wrong on this one; that the overwhelming cloy of smoke she smells but can’t see has nothing to do with Stiles; that the relentless warning of a heart that has stopped beating doesn’t belong to Stiles. That he is just banged up with a few bruises and scrapes; nothing serious or life threatening and soul crushing.

Fear tears its way toward the surface, threatening to suffocate her when she sees the ambulance parked, lights still flashing, underneath the ER bay. She runs and almost collides with Melissa as they both approach the gurney carrying Stiles inside. There is way too much blood covering his bare torso and head, his hair sticky and clotted with it when Lydia lays her hand on him. His skin is ashen, cold and almost translucent, lips blue beneath the oxygen mask.

He is _not_ okay and Lydia wants to scream. She feels the start of one coiling in her abdomen, tightening the muscles, and threatening to rise out of her in a torrent of panic.

“Stats!”

Melissa starts barking out orders at the paramedics, and Lydia snaps out of her stupor and rushes along with the stretcher as they keep moving down the hall. She fixes her stare on Stiles, hoping he will open his eyes and slip out some absurd and sarcastic comment, but he is motionless. Too quiet, too much like death.

“BP ninety over fifty and dropping. Hypovolemic shock from abdominal bleeding along with trauma to left temporal region. Likely fracture to the left distal radius. Smoke inhalation.”

Lydia knows enough about human biology and medical terminology to understand that Stiles is in bad shape. Terror feels like a demon wrapping its icy, burning fingers around her heart. She can’t get in enough air, her vision clouds at the edges. She grasps his hand, squeezing, but then she feels the pressure of a hand on her shoulder, holding her back and she loses her grip. Panic swells and she gasps out his name. Tries lunging forward to grab a hold of him again, but that damn hand won’t let up.

“Let’s have OR 2 prepped. Start oxygen and AB transfusion…get him patched up before sending him over to Radiology for scans…”

There’s a voice close behind Lydia, but she can’t process the words, can’t see anything beyond the image of Stiles’ unconscious, bleeding, and broken body burned on her retinas.

“Lydia.”

She flinches when Theo’s voice hardens, biting with an edge of fatigue; his touch like a branding iron on her shivering skin. She tears her gaze away from the double doors, blinking fast at him. Blood streaks his chin with no evidence of how he was hurt and she stares, her breath hitching at the back of her throat. How will Stiles walk away from something like this? His mortality is blatant and painful and vulnerable, bared for all to see and too many times he has cheated death. There is only so much before death barges down the door for collection.

“There’s nothing we can do right now. Let’s find a seat.”

Theo’s hand is still on her arm. She shrugs him off and plants her feet firm, adamant on remaining as close to the doors as possible, crossing her arms as she waits. Waits for someone to emerge and reassure her that Stiles will make it. He will get back up and fight the good fight. He is okay. He has to pull through; his stubbornness won’t allow anything less and Lydia refuses any other outcome.

“What happened?” she asks through a hoarse breath.

“Who or whatever is taking the bodies attacked us. Knocked me out and then flipped Stiles’ jeep with him inside—“

The Sheriff is like a bull on a feral rampage. A force to be reckoned with where it concerns his son and he barrels through the doors, demanding answers with a voice that reverberates with a boom.

Lydia feels the all too familiar chilling wisps of death brushing over and through her skin seconds before the heart alarm sounds again in her ears. She cups her hands over them with a sharp cry. Knows without fail it is Stiles’ heart that has stopped.

The scream spills out of her in a long, piercing and tragic wail.

\----

Sheriff Stilinski offers Lydia coffee by slipping the Styrofoam cup in her listless hands. His body sinks down on the hard plastic chair beside hers, as if the tethers holding him up have snapped. Drags a hand over his wearied face and looks back at Lydia from the corner of his eye.

“How are you holding up?”

She shrugs, pulling her lips between her teeth before letting out a shaky breath. Lifts the cup to her mouth and lets the steam roll over her face before taking a sip.

Stilinski pats her arm. “I’d tell you to go home and get some rest, but I know you won’t listen.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s lucky to have friends like you.”

After flat lining for two agonizing minutes on the operating table, Stiles was resuscitated and is now in recovery after close to two hours in surgery. Cardiac arrest, Melissa told them, because the wounds he suffered depleted his blood volume by almost forty percent and also caused internal bleeding. Head wounds alone bleed profusely, and top that off with metal shrapnel impaling him to the jeep’s frame. There is no telling how long before Theo pulled Stiles free of the wreckage and called the ambulance. No doubt too much if Stiles bled out almost half of his body’s supply.

He is still critical from the last report they received, but at least on the road toward stable while his body is replenished with the blood lost. All wounds were stitched and broken wrist set with no further complications. Now they wait for the results from Radiology on what the scans found from the head wound. And the waiting is torturous, each minute dragging like a slug on dry pavement. Melissa hasn’t come around in over an hour since Stiles was wheeled into recovery.

No news is good news, or at least Lydia hopes it is.

Stilinski had worn a path on the linoleum floor from pacing so much before the exhaustion forced him to sit down. Other than that, he didn’t express much in the way of his apparent anxiety aside from repeated glances at the doors Melissa had often disappeared behind along with his wristwatch.

Updates were sent via text to the rest of the pack, and when Scott told Lydia he was on his way, she countered with the argument he couldn’t do anything here and to keep looking for Liam and Hayden. If anything changed, she would let him know.

She sent Theo away not long after Stiles was stabilized in the operating room, for the fact she didn’t want him there. He hovered with a weird and unsettling façade of compassion and trustworthiness that she couldn’t shake. It wore on her already frazzled nerves. Besides, the Sheriff kept eyeing Theo with the suspicious brow scrunch she often caught Stiles using. Like father, like son.

After Theo left, she explained to Stilinski he was with Stiles at the clinic, checking on a lead when the attack happened. A part of her is thankful Theo was there, but more annoyed with all of them, including herself, that not enough backup was offered. Too much attention was focused on the plan at the school. Though she knows more than anyone Stiles can hold his own in a fight, but having an extra pair of claws and super-senses may have tipped the scales more in his favor.

She can mull over the what-ifs as much as she wants, but that doesn’t change the fact Stiles was on death’s doorstep tonight, the door ajar and luring him through before whatever force wanted him alive pulled him back. The severe reality of it has a sob scraping its way up, but she catches it through a cough, hiding her face beneath the rim of the coffee cup. Her thoughts roam, and she wonders if this how it felt for Stiles and the others when she was the one on the operating table not long ago.

“Knowing Stiles, he’ll be more worried about the jeep than himself when he wakes up,” Stilinski says with a soft chuckle, shaking his head. He rubs his palms over his face again and shifts in his seat. “I’m starting to think handcuffing him to a chair is my best option to keep him out of trouble.”

Lydia shakes her head. “He’ll still find a way to help.” And she loves that tenacity, even when she fears for his life more often than she should.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Is the jeep totaled?”

“I don’t know. I had it towed to the shop. But I could push that thing off a cliff and it would still find a way to survive.” He huffs, checks his watch and then the doors again. “It was his mom’s before…”

He lets the words trail off and Lydia nods; can’t stop the small quiver of her chin as she remembers asking why Stiles clings to the chunk of rusting metal as if his life depends on it, and he mentioned his mom, one of the only physical things he has left of her.

“We’ll get her fixed up,” Lydia promises, smiling up at Stilinski.

He lays his hand on top of hers and squeezes, face softening as he returns a tired smile. Then his eyes widen and he straightens, his gaze fixed on Melissa when she approaches. Lydia stands up with him, the anticipation for more news stifling the air around them.

“He’s out of recovery and resting peacefully.” Her hand reaches out for Stilinski and rests on his arm. The physical touch seems to deplete the Sheriff of whatever nervous energy has his body coiled tight. “He’s strong. He’ll pull through.”

Stilinski’s shoulders sag in relief and Lydia blows out a long breath, closing her eyes with silent thanks.

“Scans came back with nothing more than a concussion. He has a long road of rest and healing ahead. No running around and fighting supernatural baddies for a while.”

Lydia nods, knowing she is ready and willing to hound him if he so much as tries getting out of bed before the stitches have healed. Disregard the fact she disobeyed instructions on doing the same, but this is Stiles and a different argument altogether. She will evade and counter any sort of defense he will more than likely come up with.

“Can I see him?” Stilinski asks.

“He’s still sedated, but sure,” Melissa replies and guides Stilinski down the hall, her hand between his shoulders.

Standing alone in the hall she feels a strange emptiness in her chest, a sudden need to forgo the rules and follow. She knows once she lays eyes on him it will ease the tightness of her ribs around her heart and lungs. Will give her peace to have tangible evidence he’s okay, despite taking Melissa’s word.

She lowers down on the edge of the chair and waits. She will wait as long as needed. She will remain a sturdy support, not only because Stiles would do the same, but also he deserves so much more than what anyone can give.

\----

Melissa pulled some strings, like the superwoman saint she is, and lets Lydia sneak in the ICU for five minutes and see Stiles. When she rounds the corner into his room, he is blinking up at the ceiling, just inching out of the drug-induced sleep. He appears confused, haggard, but _alive_ and Lydia’s heart pounds, hands shaking with a surge of joy. He slides his heavy gaze toward her and her mouth spreads wide, a soft exhale escaping, as she rests her hand on his right arm – the only place not obscured by a jumble of tubes and IV lines or enclosed in a cast.

Some of the flush has returned to his skin, aside from the vibrant shades of bruising spreading out from beneath the bandage over the left side of his head. He attempts returning her gesture, but his face twists with a grimace instead. Then a gruff moan scrapes out of his throat and he clamps his eyes shut. The pain meds must be wearing off, but a quick press of the button and the morphine drip solves that.

“Shhh…” Lydia brushes back his hair plastered on his forehead. “Just rest. You’re okay now.”

“Wha…happn’d?”

She explains, keeping it concise for the sake of his drug-addled brain to process. Also, fails in mentioning he died for two minutes. She doesn’t need him freaking out, and she would like to forget it.

“Jeep?” His brow wrinkles, his eyes glazing over as the morphine kicks in.

Lydia laughs. “Banged up, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

“Nnn…” He closes his eyes, face slack as the medication runs its course and drags him back under.

Lydia stays until her five minutes are up, watching him sleep with the consolation that he is safe now. She doesn’t let go of his arm, reassured by the warmth of his skin underneath her palm – a welcoming contrast from hours earlier.

 


	5. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Stiles has asthma instead of Scott. 
> 
> _I would love it if you did one with an AU where stiles has asthma instead of scott but scott's still the one who got bit... and stress is one of his asthma triggers so you can guess how well that goes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set during S1 and could be considered canon-compliant, with the exception of Stiles having asthma and Jackson being a bigger douche than he is. Everything else in the ‘verse happens with Scott bitten, etc. 
> 
> Contains graphic descriptions of an asthma attack and bullying.

_“Stilinski!”_

With a clipped curse, Stiles stops short and blunders before he can throw the ball at the goal. It drops from the net and rolls several feet along the grass. He looks up and spots his worst nightmare charging across the field with a bitter twist of his mouth: Jackson Whittemore. Captain of the lacrosse team, star player, poster child for the spoiled brat society and major douchebag all packed into a short, wiry body. He would be handsome if he weren’t so hideous on the inside. He is flanked by three other members of the team, faces Stiles recognizes, but not their names.

Lowering the lacrosse stick, Stiles gulps but squares his shoulders, tensing for the inevitable fight. He should walk away, run or something other than standing there like a dumbfounded fool, but it is as if his body is a separate entity from his voluntary motor functions, his brain not computing in time to make distance before Jackson and his henchmen are on him.

He would have made that shot in the goal if Jackson didn’t have a knack for showing up at almost every chance Stiles has to play, even if it is by himself or with Scott. Stiles is good; better even, but dammit if anyone – least of all Coach – will give him the chance of proving it at a real game. Hell, he rarely practices with the team. If not for the extra hours he puts in after school and on weekends, he wouldn’t get to play at all.

It’s his asthma, Coach says. He is a liability they can’t risk putting on the field in the event he could suffer an attack. Stiles reiterates he will have his inhaler ready and can get back on the field with little time wasted. He knows the signs, he knows what triggers his asthma better than anyone, but all he needs is one chance to show he is not an invalid because of one stupid flaw on his medical records. More out of pity and because the Sheriff is Stiles’ dad, Coach lets him keep the jersey and stay on the team anyway. Might as well make him the water boy, because that’s how useless he feels.

Health aside, Stiles is not stupid and knows the real reason why Coach won’t let him play.

Jackson is aware of how good Stiles is at lacrosse and his narcissism won’t accept that someone can actually beat him. He sees Stiles as a threat toward his position, not only on the field, but also off. No one challenges Jackson and comes away unscathed. You look at him wrong and he is in your face, threatening to bash your head into a wall. All that taut anger seems centered on Stiles alone, and he detests and ridicules Stiles with no viable reason other than it is _fun_. At least his cackling and jeering with his buddies while Stiles is sprawled on the floor, wheezing with a bloody nose, says so, but bullying is just a power trip to mask their own insecurities.

Jackson makes damn sure Stiles can never play – on the off-chance Coach _does_ take him off the bench one day – not when Stiles comes to school almost every week with bruises or something broken or sprained. He painstakingly hides the injuries beneath layers of baggy clothes and lies that he’s too clumsy for his own good. At first, suspicion floated around about the Sheriff beating his kid but that rumor died the instant Jackson was caught pummeling Stiles in the locker room with another Jock joining in because Coach wanted Scott to try out for first line. If not for Danny coming to the rescue, Stiles would have suffocated on his own blood. Coach found out, but hell if he did anything other than a slap on Jackson’s wrist, which resulted in Jackson turning around and punching Stiles the next day.

People are so quick to assume domestic violence, and take action against it, but the second Jackson is responsible, they turn a blind eye, act like it’s not happening. They know. They see. They hear. But have them actually _do_ something is like pulling teeth. He’s too important to the success of the game, to the school’s reputation. Suspend him and the team will lose every game without him.    

Everyone regards Jackson with some level of fear or a façade of respect, even the teachers, considering his dad is the District Attorney and no one wants that can of worms opened if they can help it. Stiles refuses to tell his dad about the bullying; the Sheriff has more important shit to deal with – like the alpha who bit Scott wreaking havoc around town – than worry about his son who can’t defend himself in a mere fistfight. He makes up stories about the bruises, saying practice is just as rough as the real game.

Scott is clueless, too, but Stiles wants it that way. He doesn’t tell his best friend for the sake of his own pride despite Scott all googly-eyes and twitter pated with Allison, he wouldn’t notice if Stiles threw a book at him. Scott is not a bad friend, far from it, but Stiles needs to fight this battle on his own. For too long, he’s had family and friends treat him as if he is made of glass and shielding him with their over-protectiveness and pity. He has asthma for fuck’s sake, not a terminal disease. Don’t mind the fact every time Jackson comes around, Stiles is gasping and wheezing and desperate for his inhaler that seems too far out of reach in his pocket.

Why he doesn’t quit the team, Stiles blames his obstinate gene from his mother for that. She always had a knack for facing challenges without much thought of consequence. Sometimes to prove a point, but closer to the end she only wanted to live her life with the fullest potential before the dementia took her. But Stiles _is_ trying to prove something, more so to himself than anyone, but he also keeps fighting to save the memory of his mom. She was the one who encouraged him to try out for pre-teen lacrosse in the first place, where his dad adamantly discouraged the idea. Claudia believed in her son when no one else would take the chance. When he often doubted himself, she was there cheering him on and didn’t give him pity or sugar-coated pep talks. She was real – raw and open – with him and every part of him aches with her gone.

The nostalgia is wiped out, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth when Jackson crowds in his face, poking at his sternum with a blunt finger before he has a chance to recover. He falters back a few steps, flinching away with the fear of a fist slamming against his jaw, but Jackson only keeps jabbing spiteful words. The lacrosse stick digs into his palm when he squeezes too hard. Dread bubbles up and makes his mouth dry, tongue thick and heavy, throat constricting as his airway gets smaller and smaller. Ribs feel like a snare around his lungs, clamping tight and stalling oxygen from filling them.

Spearmint mixed with the sour sting of weed hits Stiles in the face along with spittle flying. Jackson’s cheeks flush with the fervor of his vehemence, fists clenched at his sides, his entire body wound up and ready to strike like a cobra. It’s hard concentrating on whatever Jackson is snarling at Stiles with the blood rushing in his ears like a washing machine sloshing clothes through the cycle. His head feels as if he is inside that machine, spinning and spinning. His vision wavers in and out, breathing weighted down with lead. Panic coils in his gut when he realizes his inhaler is in the front pocket of his duffle bag across the field by the benches. It is within sight, but he won’t be able to get past Jackson. He can try, but he knows the dickhead will only block him. And he can’t just ask Jackson to pause his tyrant rage by saying, “Hold on, dude, let me get my inhaler and then you can beat my ass.”

Stiles didn’t think he would need it at the ready on a fucking Saturday morning; practice never triggers a spell. No, Jackson gets that privilege.

Even if Jackson didn’t his have merry tag-along band of brainless thugs, he’d still manage beating Stiles in almost every maneuver he uses in an attempt to retaliate or dodge the bully’s vicious streak. He is not quick enough. He is not strong enough. His asthma gets in the way. Not that he needs reminding, but Jackson is _gracious_ enough to drive home the reality of Stiles’ debilitating situation every time he is around.

Still, Stiles stands his ground as Jackson yells at him and throws bitter and ugly taunts and insults at him like he isn’t human. Telling him he is nothing – nothing and no one. He will always be the scrawny, pathetic kid that warms the bench, the kid everyone will pity because he is weak and incapable of taking care of himself. He will always have Scott as his shadow. Lydia will never love him, nor waste her time with him. He will live out the rest of life as nothing but a pity case.

Physical abuse is one thing. Bruises fade, blood clots and dries, but spiteful, hurting words are poisonous claws that dig deep underneath flesh and hang on, festering like a wound that won’t heal. Scars can diminish over time, but psychological abuse creates an entirely different beast. Eventually what Jackson says seems more like truth and Stiles has a tough time discerning between what is real and not. Jackson has him so convinced, he just takes it. He lets Jackson push him around and call him names. He thinks he is winning if he doesn’t show how much it all really hurts. But that wall of apathy can only handle so much damage from Jackson pummeling at it every day.

His lungs rattle with each rough inhale and exhale. The wheezing grows louder with the strenuous effort to do a simple task of just _breathing_. Hands shaking, he curls his fingers around the lacrosse stick, suddenly angry with himself more than Jackson. He is pissed that he can’t fight off the bully when he is nothing but an insecure cockroach leeching off others in order to fill a void.

“What? Can’t breathe, Stilinski? Don’t have your inhaler to suck on a like a pacifier?” Jackson mimics a baby suckling and then chortles.

The cluster of bully-sidekicks standing behind him follow suit with: “Or like dick!” Their raucous laughter and insults erupt on the field, echoing in the crisp, morning air. No one is at the school on a Saturday to intervene, and Stiles knows if they were, they wouldn’t give a damn. He is alone. Scott is with Allison. He has to do something – he needs his inhaler or this spat is going to land him in the ER.

Unfortunately for Stiles, he fails to turn on the brain-to-mouth filter before he spits out, “No, that would be you sucking dick, asshole,” and immediately regrets the jab once it leaves his mouth.

It takes another few seconds for the surprise to morph into fury. With a dark glower marring his face, Jackson thrusts his hand out and shoves at Stiles’ chest, pushing him back a good three feet. Laughter grows louder when Stiles trips and lands hard on his ass, forcing out what little air he had left in his lungs. His sight grays at the edges when he can’t get the oxygen back in and he is suffocating. Mouth opens and closes, ribs heaving to expand his lungs, but nothing moves through his restricted airway. It feels as if he is breathing through one of those pointless coffee stir straws. He rolls over and struggles on all fours, wheezing, tears sprouting at the corners of his tightly shut eyes. Hears the rushing pulsation of his frantic heartbeat in his ears, limbs wobbly beneath him as the lack of oxygen drags him under with a rush of fatigue.

“P-p…’ease. I can’—“

The words come out feeble and choppy without passable air. His chest burns, diaphragm working overtime to expand and contract, but with little to no results for the effort. Every time he opens his mouth and struggles to pull in air, the invisible vice around his ribs tightens, crushing him from the inside.  

Jackson and his friends don’t throw punches or kick at Stiles when he outstretches his hand in a desperate, silent plea for his inhaler. Worse, they cage him in and watch him suffer and find entertainment as he gasps for precious oxygen his useless lungs won’t fucking _work_ to bring in. When he tries pushing out of the circle, crawling on all fours toward the benches, they shove him back in and tighten their formation around him.

“And you want to play lacrosse?” Jackson lets out a belly-deep laugh. “You can’t even take a punch without crying for your inhaler. You’re pathetic, Stilinski!”

Tears streaming down his face, he clutches at Jackson’s ankle only to have his hand kicked away. He panics and a cry dies in his gut without the air it needs to push through his vocal chords. He’s going to die and his tormentors do nothing but watch it happen. Somehow that is the most terrifying thing, not because he is asphyxiating, but they don’t feel an ounce of remorse.

“Hey!”

The dense shadow of bodies looming over Stiles breaks apart like a crack in the earth, and then he is staring up at Derek Hale’s chiseled face and eternal scowl. His mouth sets in a thin line as he thrusts Stiles’ inhaler into his hand. This is…unexpected. Is Stiles hallucinating? All he can manage is an awestruck stare before Derek’s brows fly up high on his forehead. He must be on death’s doorstep to conjure Derek as his savior or maybe he is already in hell.

“ _Stiles…_ ”

He blinks out of his stupor and drags the inhaler to his lips, hand shaking so bad he can barely hold it much less compress the trigger. Derek is watching him, silent and still, waiting. His lungs scream for reprieve, the hysteria making him fumble a few times before he finally pushes down on the button. The steroid ejects and moves down his trachea in a blessed mist of instant relief, and the cinched noose around his ribs loosens. He collapses on his back, gulping in sweet, sacred air. Tears roll down the sides of his face. He stares up at Derek leaning over him and he nods with a tight swallow. As if that is all the affirmation Derek needed, he whirls on Jackson and drives him back several feet with a quick shove that Stiles knows will leave a mark. Good. The tables have turned in Stiles’ favor as Jackson takes the rough handling with nothing more than a wide, stunned stare. Doesn’t pout like the whiny dickhead he is, but rather looks at Derek with blanched terror.

“Mess with him again, and I will tear your jaw off your face.”

There is a hushed moment where Jackson squints at Derek and then at Stiles, as if gauging what they mean to each other, but there is nothing there to tell. Which stumps Stiles more than anyone because, what the hell, why is _Derek_ of all people standing up for him against bullies. Hell has officially frozen over.

Derek’s shoulders stiffen and he takes a small, threatening step forward. “Are you deaf? _Go._ ”

Jackson clenches his jaw as whatever rebuttal he had shrivels up and dies. He may be an idiot and a monumental dickhead, but at least he is smart enough to know when he has lost a fight. He slowly retreats with his friends in tow. Tension still coiling in Stiles’ body finally releases, and he sags against the ground with a long and hoarse sigh. He closes his eyes and takes another hit from the inhaler as the strain in his lungs hasn’t lifted. Gaining back that smooth rhythm takes a bit of concentration, which is tough when his head feels like a steel spike is driven between his eyes.

“Where’s Scott?”

Stiles slips open one lid and frowns at Derek staring down at him, arms folded over his chest with the trademark grumpy cat frown.

“Dunno. With Allison, pro’ly.” His voice grates like he has too much phlegm from a cold stuck at the back of his throat and he coughs to clear it. “Why?”

Derek rolls his eyes and drops his hands, curling them into fists beneath the too-long hem of his leather jacket. He looks beyond the field and huffs, “I need to talk to him,” then walks off.

“Uh, thanks?” Stiles says, confused by yet another odd encounter with Derek Hale.


	6. talk to me, my son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _i have a prompt for your hurt!stiles verse! :D maybe after all the traumatic experiences stiles starts having super bad anxiety and wets the bed and gets physically sick because of his stress then his dad helps him:)_

Coffee is cold.

John hasn’t touched the mug since pouring the liquid over an hour ago – maybe two? He is not sure anymore; hasn’t budged where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, palms pressed firm on the surface. Feet hurt from standing so long, but it is a petty ache compared to the apprehension pressing on his chest.

Thoughts have wandered from what-ifs and whys and how comes in the last hour. What is happening now makes him feel like a failure, like he didn’t pay enough attention, like he didn’t care. But he does. God, he does. Stiles is all he has in this world and he cares more than the sea is vast.

Still, he doubts his own testimony. If he really cares as much as he says he does, maybe what is happening wouldn’t have if he had taken extra time noticing the changes rather than thinking Stiles is finally safe after the possession.

For being a cop, John is fucking it up spectacularly by not acting on his instincts, by not observing enough when a problem with his child is begging for him to open his eyes and _see_ what is right in front of him. Stiles is not okay. John thought he would be safe and better after the Nogistune was defeated. Should have known no one can walk away unscathed from something like that. He is stupid, so stupid. The more he watches Stiles, the more he realizes his son is broken.  

Stiles may crack those sarcastic jokes like he used to, but his smile is different, haunted. His posture is stiff and shaking all the time. Voice is edgy, like he is bearing too much weight on his shoulders, too much guilt and pain. John brushed it off as just being _Stiles_ and his hyperactive nature, but now he can’t ignore it. Can’t see beyond what is slapping him in the face once he opened his eyes.

The lies have started all over again, but for different reasons. Just when he thought they were past that hurdle. He knows the tell-tale signs now. Stiles twitches more than usual, eyes dancing, throat convulsing when those false words spill from his trembling lips. He used to be better at it, fooling John countless times. He wonders if there is something else he’s trying to protect him from. Not monsters, at least. Stiles is quick on keeping him in the loop where the supernatural is concerned nowadays, but shuts the lid tight when pressed on anything remotely personal. He tries reassuring John everything is as normal as it can be, but the more he brushes it off and acts like nothing is wrong, the more John worries, the more he feels guilty.

Walls keep cracking and he is getting sloppy.

John noticed him stripping the bed yesterday, but didn’t think anything of it until he sprayed the mattress with Lysol and Febreeze until his room was swathed in a cloud of disinfectant mist. The sheets were tossed in the washer, but in his rush to get to school forgot about turning the machine on. John smelled the urine and vomit before opening the washer’s lid – the reality of it punching him hard in the stomach. This hasn’t happened since Claudia died. John was told it was only a phase at the time and soon went away. But he never dealt with it. Never comforted his son during his own stages of grief and selfishly ignored problems by drowning in glass after glass of Jack Daniels.

Now, he is at a loss on what to do or say. The thought of confronting Stiles has left a nagging, gnawing feeling in his gut for the last twenty-four hours and growing worse by the minute. He is afraid Stiles will cower further into himself with shame and that is the last reaction he wants.

Pinpointing where he lost faith in confiding in John leaves a hollow, burning ache inside him. When he would rather suffer alone than let anyone care for him, least of all his dad. Makes it seem like two strangers living under the same roof, the connection severed. Can’t help but wonder if it is because he didn’t believe in Stiles all those times he needed him to, or when John didn’t let him know how much he really loved him and instead he fired back cynical remarks, no doubt making Stiles feel inadequate.  

Sighing, John rubs at his temples with trembling fingers then glances at the clock on the coffee machine. It is well past the time Stiles should be heading for school, and he worries on his bottom lip. Eyes linger on the stairs, the house quiet – too quiet. Something that is not a normal trend in the Stilinski house, not with Stiles a constant energy thrumming about.

He frowns and pushes away from the counter, moving on stiff legs. Ascending the stairs is a slow process, and not easy, as he runs through all the possible scenarios and outcomes: what to say, how to act or react. Dread builds up with each step bringing him closer to Stiles’ bedroom. Expectation of getting shut out already tightens between his shoulders, squeezing around his ribs, but he still pushes forward.

Stiles is scrambling with a shirt, pulling it over his head, cheeks flushed with the haste of rushing. Sheets are ripped off the mattress again, but missing. There is no ignoring the stains in the center of the mattress.

Guilt closes up John’s throat, stealing any process of words he planned on. Stiles looks at him, mouth forming an O in surprise before blinking hard, stunned by John’s silent, sudden presence. He scurries to grab his backpack, eyes lowered, avoiding contact with John. He intends on leaving without saying a thing; yet again pushing away the problem like it is nothing.

Maybe it is, maybe John is overreacting, but that unmistakable twinge in his gut says otherwise.

“I’m late. Gotta go. Bye,” he says, voice strained and clipped.

He tries brushing past John, but his arm extends, hand grabbing the doorframe. He never intended on blocking Stiles or pushing him into some proverbial corner, but John can’t stand another minute without saying something.

“Let’s have an off day,” he blurts out, forcing a smile. The motion feels weird on his face, something that hasn’t seemed genuine in a while. “Just you and me, kid. Kick back, watch some baseball—“

“Uhh…” He squints and his face tightens with worry. Not for himself, but for John. “You okay, dad?”    

Traces of Claudia shine through when Stiles is always concerned of others before his needs. He didn’t get that from John, not this glaring selflessness.   

Looking at Stiles, really looking at him, John notices the dark circles under his eyes; pale and shaky with a feverish tint splashed across his cheeks; the way his shoulders hunch forward and muscles weighed down by too many burdens for a teenage boy. It scares John, seeing his son deteriorating right in front of him and it feels like a morbid sense of déjà vu. The signs subtle, but still blatant, and he didn’t notice.

Stiles is not sick, not like Claudia, but fear of losing him – like John almost did almost a month ago – rips at his core with a serrated knife.  

“Stiles—“

His face morphs from worried to confused, and then to frightened. He panics when he realizes John knows. He panics too, and goes with his gut reaction before reason can stop him and before Stiles can flee. Embracing him is not a foreign thing, but today it feels like an awkward reunion with a long-lost acquaintance.

“Dad—“ he mumbles into John’s shoulder, arms slack by his side, not reciprocating.

The line of his body is like a taut wire ready to fray and snap, but John’s better judgment tells him _don’t let go_. Stiles is instinctively building those walls higher and sooner or later his heart will be too hard and impenetrable. Letting go is the same as ignoring the problem, pushing it away as nothing, but it _is_ something. Stiles _is_ important. It is time John recognizes that and shows it. He is not a shadow that should be disregarded when John thinks there are more significant problems arising.

Whatever complications or triumphs that came up with Stiles before, he considered them meaningless in the grand scheme of things when Claudia got sick, and there lies his biggest mistake. Pushing Stiles must have ingrained the idea that his life does not have value, that his problems are petty and not worth a damn.

“I’m sorry, kiddo…”

“Dad, what—“

“I’ve been so selfish lately,” John says, hugging him tighter. “I haven’t paid attention.”

Stiles is quiet, holding his breath. Minutes drag by before he finally lifts his arms and encircles John, fingers curling in the fabric of his uniform. He huffs and buries his face deeper in the crook of John’s shoulder. Feverish, clammy skin seeps through the fabric of his shirt along with the warm moisture of tears. Tension ebbs, but the internal struggle is still blaring. Stress and pain radiates off Stiles in tangible waves as his body begins shaking with the sudden rush of silent sobs. His hands clutch at John’s shirt as if he is holding onto a chunk of driftwood in the middle of a sea storm; the only thing keeping him afloat.  

“I’m here,” John says, “I’m not going anywhere.”


	7. push me in the deep end (and watch me drown)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For cuppa_char, who wanted post 5a Stiles throwing a tantrum full of anger and grief, and having Derek come back to help him out of an anxiety attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: I am not a Scott hater. I love Scott. Please don’t read this fic with that assumption, although it may seem like it. This fic is not written to bash Scott in any way, but to express through Stiles’ POV the idea that he has no clue what Scott went through in the finale along with being blinded by his anger. In this moment, Stiles feels he is justified in his actions and thoughts toward Scott. But in the end, these boys love each other and will eventually hug it out.
> 
> Title from song "Hold Me Down" by Halsey.

Stiles flexes the fingers of his right hand, wincing when he can barely bend them, his knuckles bloody and abraded and swollen. Not broken, but at least sprained, throbbing in tune with his heartbeat.

Regret for attacking Scott doesn’t have a place in his heart. Not yet. Not when the pain and anger is still too fresh and raw, the adrenaline pumping like a bullet train through his veins.

The irrational side of him wants to find Scott so he can punch him again – just for good measure – as if he didn’t already drive home how angry and grieved he is. And Scott took it; didn’t fight back and just laid there and took it all. Like with everything lately, Scott didn’t do a damn thing. He let this happen. He let Theo weave his web and entangle everyone in the trap of deceit and betrayal. He let Theo hurt Stiles’ dad. He let Theo take Lydia and doing god-knows-what to her now. Because he had to give Theo the benefit of the doubt, but fuck Scott and his fucking benefit; Stiles wants to shove it up his ass and tell him, “I told you so!”

Trust is lost between them. Scott believed Theo over his own friend, his own pack, and the ground has shifted beneath their feet with little hope of gaining balance again. A precious part of their friendship taken and they can’t get back.

A life-long friendship shattered by that one action of turning a blind eye when Scott should’ve stayed diligent the most, when Stiles needed him to believe more than ever. Now Stiles’ dad and Lydia are taking the brunt of all their mistakes. Because of Stiles’ inability to eliminate the threat before it struck, knowing Theo had some dark and deadly plan hiding behind that charming smile from the start; because he couldn’t get Scott to believe him; because of Scott’s complete lack of common sense where it concerns trust in spite of all they have been through since he was bitten; because Theo is the one to destroy them. Not Peter. Not the Alpha Pack. Not the Darach. But a fucking teenager.

Stiles should have tried harder. He should have exhausted all avenues, despite consequences, on finding out Theo’s secrets and exposing him. He gave up too soon. He let this happen as much as Scott did.

Maybe if Derek were still here then this would’ve never happened. At least nowhere near where it escalated. There wouldn’t be the problem of convincing Derek of Theo’s treachery, not when he has the same bullshit radar as Stiles. He’d side with Stiles from the start and would help get rid of the threat before Theo had a chance to manipulate Scott.

No matter the countless times Stiles has called or texted Derek with no response, Stiles misses him too much to stay pissed for long. There is a void left in Derek’s absence and is always a dull ache.

Leaving Beacon Hills has caused a vacuum effect of disorder. He was the glue keeping them together. He was the real guardian of this town. More important, he was the one person who never doubted Stiles and now more than ever Stiles needs that assurance. Needs someone to tell him he is not a murderer, that killing Donovan was justified in self-defense, that Scott’s accusations and judgment are premature. Stiles needs affirmation because he doesn’t believe himself. Not when the guilt is too great. But Derek would believe without a moment’s hesitation and Stiles is desperate for that belief in him, to the point of rage.

He quakes where he stands. A scream bubbles up from his lungs and he clamps his jaw to keep it contained. His fists fly to his face, pressing hard against his temples as the anger and sorrow spill over in a torrent. His jaw locks, molars grinding, the suppressed scream abrading the lining of his vocal folds and begging for release.

Through a haze of tears he looks around the dim space of his dad’s office and thinks: his dad should be here. Safe and untouched by Theo’s wicked plans. The bustle of the station outside the office goes on without a hitch; a low din vibrating beyond the closed door with phones ringing and voices. As if nothing horrible has happened. As if Stiles’ dad is not in ICU, fighting for his life.

No one cares anymore.

No one pays attention.

Why can’t Stiles get anyone to _see_?

Why did they let this happen? How could everyone be so blind?

Why can’t Derek come back? Why did he have to leave?

Too many questions and no fucking answers. No one can give the answers Stiles is looking for. He’s doubting whether he will ever find them.

Hatred for Theo spreads a cold, numbing hand over Stiles’ heart. Anger consumes every thought and strained muscle until he burns, incoherent. He lets the rage tear out of him in a shrill cry bursting from the depths. He yells and curses as he swipes his arm across the desktop, shoving meaningless item on the floor with a resounding crash; the action gives him something physical against all the intangible frustration piling up.

Computer monitor cracks and shorts out, glass shatters inside photo frames, and piles of paper flutter in wild disarray. He forgets about the sentimental value and he picks up his dad’s coffee mug that miraculously survived the fall. He chucks it across the room with another bellow, watches with a belated pang of remorse for its demise as it explodes in small shards and rains down on the floor. Then he chokes out a sob, the metaphor not lost in the heat of his rage.

Yet, it only makes him want to destroy everything else within his reach, feels as if breaking inanimate objects will keep him from hurting someone else, but he won’t give Theo that satisfaction. Not after he has taken _everything_ from Stiles, turned his friends against him. At least he tries convincing himself of that, but it is proving harder and harder to resist giving in to the rage eating him up inside. He is so fucking _tired_ of fighting it _._  

He stands in the middle of the mess he made and finds it mimics his life as of late.

Chaos. Brokenness. Desolation.

He’s alone.

Derek is gone.

Scott doesn’t want him.

The rest of the pack is in shambles like the office Stiles is standing in the middle of.

Nothing is stable anymore, least of all Stiles. He is barely hanging on the precipice. His anchors aren’t there to keep him grounded and he panics as the brutal realization punches him in the ribs. He gasps, chest heaving with shallow breaths, cheeks hot, and fists clenching until joints creak. His swollen hand quivers, weak and throbbing from the pressure.

Tries ignoring the wary stares directed at him through the glass window, unsure whether they should interfere or leave Stiles with his grief. He’s surprised they didn’t intercept his destruction of the office, though one officer still has his hand on the butt of his holstered firearm. But he backs away slowly, though hesitant. Obviously ransacking an office is better than beating up his friend.

Stiles wouldn’t be at the station if not for his altercation with Scott at the hospital. After he kept trying to rush at Scott to beat him again, he was given the choice to stay cuffed to a chair in the waiting room or cool off surrounded by cops at the station.

So much for that.

The fuse is lit and he’s afraid he will go over the edge Theo keeps trying to push him toward. He’s terrified that Theo was right, and the darkness inside Stiles is real and waiting for the perfect provocation. If he crosses that line, he’s not sure if he can step back or if he even wants to. So much anger has built up, more so in the last few weeks, and Stiles needs some sort of release.

Something breaks inside of him when the desperation plows a heavy weight into him. Leaves him staggering on his feet. He turns away from the window, silenttears slipping down his face. Shoulder muscles bunch and ache with the relentless anxiety heaping and nowhere to go. Head reeling, he moves in a slow circle as he draws in a deep inhale only for it to catch when his ribs compress too tight, too fast, an invisible arm cinching around his chest. Vision narrows, clouding over in a haze. A strange, ragged sound escapes him, and he slumps down as his knees give in like a flimsy folding chair. He crumples to the floor, right leg tangled underneath him. Salty tears further obscure his sight to a darkened, blurred tunnel.

A sob forces its way out, painful and torn, and he claws at his skin as the panic crawls over him like fire ants. Pain is sharp, like a knife piercing the walls of his lungs every time he takes a breath. He wants to shout, but he can’t get the sound out. Nothing but a feeble thump of his head against the wall before he lists to the left, against the sofa, limbs useless. His body quakes with a silent, gut-cramping cry, the tears mingling with snot and saliva dribbling down his chin.

He is delirious and hyperventilating by the time warm hands are on his face, a dark figure kneeling over him and screaming his name.

A voice Stiles recognizes in an instant.

A voice he was afraid he’d never hear again.

Stiles jerks upright, blinking hard at the face hovering. “D-Derek… Derek? Wha—”

Confused relief takes a U-turn into anger and Stiles lashes out, punching at the solid wall of muscle and leather. Derek lets him. Sits back on his haunches and lets Stiles punch him without a word; his face passive and patient yet intense. It is not out of resignation he doesn’t stop Stiles, but a mutual understanding this is the best way to relinquish all that has bottled up. He knows Stiles. He understands the anger.

Derek keeps his gaze steady on Stiles, a silent reassurance he is there and not going away. Still, Stiles pounds at Derek’s chest until his fists throb and arms are cooked noodles, screaming until his voice cracks like a stupid squeaky dog toy. Then Derek touches him, splaying his fingers over Stiles’ heaving chest – his heartbeat wild and erratic beneath its cage, under Derek’s palm. Several minutes drag with Stiles panting and trembling, but the warmth of Derek’s touch leaches whatever remaining frenzy he had prickling under the surface. He blows out a long, shaky breath as his body relaxes, lungs cleared of any panic-inducing blockage.

“Why… _Why_?”

“I’m here now.”

“That shouldn’t count. It does…but it shouldn’t. I’m pissed at you.” Stiles huffs, rubbing his face clean of tears and snot. Wipes the muck on his jeans as he squints at Derek, frowning. “You picked a shitty time to leave, just so you know. I called you _every day_. You made me sound like a desperate, clingy boyfriend or something.”

Derek gives the barest of smiles, the lines of his features soft. “Would you believe me if I told you I lost my phone?”

“No,” Stiles snaps, but then shakes his head, groaning. Of course he does. “Where were you?”

“Trying to find answers,” Derek says with a simple shrug then dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

Stiles blows out a gruff laugh. He tilts his head back, staring at Derek through the veil of his lashes. “Fuck, well... Where to start? The pack’s fallen apart. Everything is so messed up. Kira left. I broke up with Malia. Lydia is gone…missing. I think…no I _know_ Theo has something to do with it. This asshole comes in after you leave, all this smooth, innocent charm that makes me want to gag on a spoon and he turns Scott against me. On top of that, the bastard went after my dad and put him in the hospital. I don’t know if he’s going to make it or not. God, I’m so scared and so angry. Scott believed everything Theo told him. About Donovan. I tried, but—“

“Slow down, Stiles. Breathe.”

“I can’t. I’m so angry, Derek. I am so angry!”

“I know. And that’s okay.”

“Okay? How is that okay? I feel like it’s eating me alive. I feel like I need to claw it out of my chest or punch someone until my knuckles break. I can’t _breathe_. I can’t think. You left. You left, Derek, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do anymore. Everything I care about is…is—“ His breath catches, scraping across his vocal chords like shards of glass. Doubles over, clutching his middle as a broken moan passes his lips. “I lost Scott. I lost him. My best friend…”

“Stiles, look at me. C’mon.” Derek grabs Stiles’ face and forces his eyes up.

Tears sprout from the corners of Stiles’ eyes, and Derek surprises him by swiping his thumb pads over his wet cheeks. Stiles sucks in a sharp inhale and holds it in, staring down the length of his nose inches from Derek’s.

“Please don’t leave me,” he says through quivering lips, eyes watery.

“I won’t. You’re not alone.”

 

_-fin_


	8. wrecked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deals with non-con and non-consensual drug use, but nothing graphic on the sexual assault.

Something is not right.

Stiles feels…all wrong.

But the moment he thinks he should be freaking out, he forgets why. He forgets before he can figure out why he forgot he should be worried. On an endless loop, a vicious circle spinning and spinning, this is his thought process. Hundred times worse than his brain sober, like a lottery ball tumbling inside a spinning barrel, but faster until it’s nauseating. His muddled, thick brain can’t hold onto any coherent thought or sense of time. When he thinks he’s grasped something, it slips away and he’s whirling around in a dense cloud of confusion.  

At first he brushes it off that he drank too much, but vaguely recalls only a few sips from a beer before his vision started smearing. He’s not a lightweight, not when he can down several shots of hard liquor before feeling as buzzed as he is now. His body is so damn heavy, as if he has boulders for bones, his movements sluggish and hampered.

He can’t recall why or how he got here. This club…he doesn’t remember the name of. He hates clubs. Nothing good happens in a club. Why the hell is he here? Maybe Scott will know—

God, he is so thirsty. His tongue feels like a desert rock sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He needs air. Clothes are drenched with sweat, shirt sticking to the curve of his back.  

The music is nothing but a repetitive thrum of vibration in his chest, his ears clogged by the unsteady whoosh of his heartbeat.

He needs…

He can’t remember. Dammit, what is happening?

Where is Scott? Didn’t he come here with Stiles? He could’ve sworn…

He tumbles into a sea of bodies – faces blurred and stretched like some twisted slow motion animation – trying to find Scott, but then keeps thinking Scott didn’t come along only to keep searching, pushing and being shoved this way and that as he weaves through the crowd. It’s like thick, furling smoke, choking him. Strobe lights burn his over-sensitive retinas and he shuts his eyes tight. But that throws off his already shitty balance and he’s colliding with dancing bodies, carelessly tossed around. A kaleidoscope of bursting colors smacks into him when he opens his eyes and he pitches sideways. Then a strong grip has him by the elbow, saving him from a painful and no doubt embarrassing face plant.    

“Hey, hey…I gotcha.”

Stiles’ reflexes are delayed by several, agonizing seconds and he bats at the hands grabbing him too late. He mumbles and slurs out something, but he doesn’t even know what it is he’s trying to say, as he’s hauled off the dance floor. The swaying, gyrating bodies get further away and he realizes he’s not walking. His sneakers drag along the floor, arms holding him upright underneath his pits. Someone’s chest pressed against his back. Down a narrow hall where the music is a dull throb, but the bass still a thick beat in his ribs.

“Nnng. Stahp…I ‘an…”

“Hey buddy, jus’ tryin’ to help is all.” The guy’s voice is smooth and deep, and laced with a heavy drawl. Stiles is reminded of those cheesy, classic westerns his dad would watch on Saturday nights. What was that actor’s name? Something Rain? No, Wayne. That’s it. “Lookin’ like you had way too much to drink there, huh? Let’s get ya comfy.”

But he had _one_ beer – not even the whole thing. This is so not fair. Stupid, shoddy human metabolism. Or maybe he did have more than one beer? He can’t remember much of anything else, there’s no telling what he poured down his throat.

“Lemme—“ Stiles huffs, flapping his lead-laden arms with the intent to ward off the stranger and then he slumps, exhausted. Head lolls forward on neck muscles made of goo. Watches with some odd detached interest as the untied lace of his right shoe trails along the linoleum floor while he’s carried further away from the crowd of people. He should be worried. Why isn’t he worried about any of this? He smacks his lips, still thirsty and wishes he had a gallon of water to guzzle down right about now.  

There his mind goes again, wandering off into a distant lala land where he can’t hang onto a cohesive thought long enough for the concern to sink in fully for panic.

Soon the music congeals, as if Stiles is hearing it from under water. He is plopped heavily on something cushy and deep. He twists around and nuzzles his face in the fabric, closing his eyes. So tired. Maybe if he just closes his eyes and rests for a few minutes, the spinning and confusion will go away.

He flinches and moans when warm hands graze over the skin of his arms then down and under his shirt, raising gooseflesh in their wake. In all the _badtouchnothisiswrong_ ways instead of excitement. He tries swatting away the offending touch; he just wants to sleep, dammit. Let him sleep.

“Y’er burnin’ up…let’s get ya comfy. I’ll take care a’ya, dun worry.”

Like hell he shouldn’t worry. Some distant voice raises the alarm to fight, but just as quickly as the voice sounded, it’s gone. Stiles attempts shaking his head, but it only flops back on the cushion, his jaw lax. He can’t keep his eyes open long enough to see the face the southern drawl belongs to, much less focus on anything other than how fucked up he is feeling for someone who isn’t a fucking lightweight. Tries articulating that fact, but can’t seem to form anything concrete. Only gruff, mewling sounds slip out. Grating along his vocal chords like coarse sandpaper.

“Shh, shh. It’s gonna be all right. I’ll take care a’ya.”

He shudders when he feels fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. Has a split-second bout of panic, breath hitching and hands slapping at unforgiving flesh hovering too close, before his muscles dissolve, weightless. He droops further into the plush cushion beneath him and stops fighting awareness.

Not that he was winning or anything.

He is just so damn tired…

Mind drags like coagulated glue sliding down a pane of glass. He loses track, fading in and out with little or no memory grounding him on how much time has passed from one conscious stream to the next. Could be minutes. Could be hours. Somehow he doesn’t care as much. He is warm and fuzzy, with a bizarre sense of apathy, yet he can’t help thinking he should be worried when sweaty palms spread his naked thighs – wait, where are his pants?

Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuck._ This is wrong – something is wrong. Danger Will Robinson! Danger.

Adrenaline soars, hitting him with a sucker punch in the gut and he’s gasping. He jerks and gives a shove at the body over him with a garbled, wordless protest. He might as well be pushing at a brick wall; the guy doesn’t budge an inch. Whatever wonky shit is in his system makes him feel like a newborn colt, just flailing around wobbly, useless limbs.

A hand smothers his mouth, stifling his yells. Didn’t realize he was making that much noise, not over the wild panic ratcheting his heartbeat, thundering in his ears. Eyes slap open wide, and he shakes his head, bucking his hips before his arms are pinned at his sides.

That makes the hysteria worse. Stiles is minutes away from a full-blown panic attack.

“Shush now.”

Callused fingers dig into the sides of his face with the threat of bruising, holding his head in place. Thumb caresses the skin under his right eye and he wants nothing more than to bite off that fucking appendage and shove it down the creepy bastard’s throat.

Stiles drags in a lungful and screams beneath the sweaty palm, tastes cigarette smoke and ash, making him gag. A hard smack against the side of his head – more like a fucking horse kicking him – and he sees white. That momentary surge of energy pops like an over-inflated balloon and he sags into the cushion beneath him with a hoarse moan. Consciousness recedes from that point. He has one last terrifying thought of _rape_ before oblivion takes hold and yanks him under.

Crawling back toward clarity is like a slug dragging its body along dry pavement. Slow and torturous with a nauseating hangover effect that forces his stomach in a curdling roll. He tastes the bitterness of acid at the back of his throat, but somehow manages keeping the vomit down. Skin over his left temple is hot and stretched too tight. Prods at the inflamed spot with his fingers and hisses through clenched teeth.

What the fucking hell?

That gets him moving, but at a snail’s pace, his body stiff and achy in odd places. He struggles on memories, trying to piece together what the hell happened and why he is so sick. Nothing fits. Not when the last concrete moment he can grasp is texting Scott to meet him at Sinema after he found a lead on another chimera before heading inside the club.

Makes sense after he focuses on the muffled tempo of bass-heavy music beyond the closed door, but how he ended up in this small room with only a sofa and a dozen or so empty beer bottles is beyond Stiles’ recollection. That scares the shit out of him. He has to get out; find answers, find Scott, find solid ground.

Gathering weak, shaky limbs beneath him, he notices his jeans discarded on the floor beside him with a few dollar bills strewn around them. He sucks in a breath through a closing airway, gaping. Panic creeps up, scenarios running rampant in his head on how he ended up like this, but always coming back to one filled with dread settling in his stomach like a brick. Tastes the acid prickling at the back of his throat again, but he swallows it down. Hard. Bitter. Which only makes the sickness worse.

Chills wash over his flushed skin in dizzying waves and he shudders. Fumbles with his jeans, tripping three times before he has them on and buttoned, and leaves the money on the ground. He gets the hell out of there, shoving past faceless people toward the exit. Screw meeting up with Scott or even searching for him. All Stiles cares about is getting as far away from this hazy nightmare as humanly possible, seeking the cover of safety in his Jeep.

He is too hysterical to drive. Instead, grips the steering wheel like a raft keeping him afloat, counting down the agonizing minutes until he can breathe without feeling like his chest is about to split open. Drops his trembling hands on his lap and slumps forward, forehead touching the wheel as a deep, aching sob bubbles up.

A single tear escapes, and slithers alongside his nose before dropping on the vinyl floorboard.

 


	9. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _for the hurt stiles prompts: stiles as a hemophiliac, aka his blood doesn't clot like it's supposed to and a tiny bleeding cut could be fatal. obviously, this'll make protecting his friends from the supernatural way harder. also obviously, that won't stop him._

One of these days Stiles would learn from his mistakes. He’d come to the illuminating realization he was human and had many delicate parts of his anatomy that could break and bleed easily. No super fast healing. He’d talk himself out of dangerous situations and listen to sound wisdom for once.   

It wasn’t one of those days.

He wished he could blame his current predicament on his hairy friends or whatever new supernatural baddie they ended up battling that week, but no, this was entirely Stiles’ fault. Not that he had many instances in the past he could actually lay blame on someone other than him.

Surprise. Surprise.

This time he was alone. Without telling anyone of his whereabouts or intentions. With a dying phone battery.

He had watched _127 Hours_ , he knew nauseatingly well the repercussions of his decision, and yet that hadn’t stopped him.

He really upped the ante on the stupidity scale this time.

If he had the strength he’d punch himself. But that required moving uncooperative muscles stiff and achy from the cold that had long ago soaked into the marrow of his bones, burning and aching. 

Just a routine trek through the woods, in the middle of the night on a Sunday, looking into the current disturbance of whatever new supernatural creature had dug its way out there by the call of the Nemeton.

No biggie.

_Right._

Curiosity had nagged and nagged until Stiles gave in rather than swatting it away. After overhearing snippets of the conversation Scott had with Derek that morning over the phone, Stiles couldn’t pass up the opportunity to stake out whatever it was for himself.

Not the first time he’d wandered off without supervision. Definitely not the last despite his inner monologue telling him _never again_.

He couldn’t deny that constant need for action thrumming in his bones, and any chance he had to investigate something he’d grab it with his teeth and hold on tight. Never mind the possibility of danger or maiming or death. _Or_ Derek’s persistent warnings for Stiles to stay out of it and the imminent scowl of doom. Talking to Stiles in that irritating paternal tone he loathed so much more when it came from Derek.  

Derek really should have known better that Stiles wouldn’t listen, least of all to Scott. At this point in their friendship, Stiles was quite surprised the broody werewolf hadn’t yet assigned him a permanent babysitter.  

Before the idea had formulated into any sort of plan to hike through the preserve on his own, Stiles should have slapped himself and taken the higher road toward wisdom. Should have known nothing ended up going the way he had planned. Something eventually screwed up in some spectacular fashion or another. Why he never took that to heart, he might never understand.

He hadn’t even stumbled upon anything or anyone before his infinite lack of coordination had his sneakers slipping on the rain-slick earth, and he went tumbling down into a ditch at the bottom of a hill. 

Every inch of his body felt as if it had been used as a punching bag, maybe his pride bruised more than anything. He could just hear Derek or Scott saying, “I told you so” while waggling that berating finger at Stiles. He gritted his teeth at the thought.

With his right ankle at least sprained, climbing out of the ditch was not possible. He had about 2% battery life left before draining it by calling Scott… _twice_. Again with the luck thing not on his side, of course Scott didn’t answer.

Should’ve called Derek instead. Should have known he’d have a higher chance of actually getting someone to answer the phone. If not Derek, maybe Isaac.

Stupid, Stiles. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.  

He was screwed.

Moving the slightest bit striped new lines of fiery pain through his battered body, eliciting strained curses from his lips. The majority of that hurt originated from a small, but deep gash on his side, just under the ribs. He’d tried staunching the blood flow by using his flannel shirt as a compress, but it hadn’t slowed and blood had soaked through. Only seemed to get worse the longer he was out there, stuck in that damned ditch.  

Alone.

He closed his eyes, dropping his head back against the moist tree trunk holding him upright. The rain from that morning had lowered the temperature outside and just kept dropping below the point of comfort, even in the many layers he religiously wore. Muscles were rigid and weak from shivering. His breath produced puffy clouds of moist heat before his face. Ears and nose burned from the cold; his fingers and toes numb. His brain felt like cement pounded beneath a jack hammer from the relentless teeth chattering, jaw cramping.

He’d tried climbing to higher ground at one point, but by that time his energy had depleted so much he had only ended up toppling back down the short distance he had cleared. Lost focus for a bit in the tumble downhill, his head banging against something hard and blunt protruding and the cut on his side igniting like a firebrand on his skin.

There was no stopping the sharp, ragged cry that tore past his lips. The sound echoed in the too quiet midnight air. No doubt signaling predators nearby of his blaring weakness.

With every minute passing he was losing blood faster than a normal person would have. Added perk of lacking those crucial clotting proteins in his blood.

He wanted to kick his downright shitty luck in the ass. 

He inspected the cut, peeling the soaked shirt away from his side, and ground out a moan. Blood just kept seeping. He wished he could ignore it, but he knew better.

As a child he’d had his fair share of bruises and cuts, what with the various extracurricular activities he had ventured and dragged Scott into. Never thought much about it at the time, why it took a lot longer for the bleeding to stop. He’d always had his parents or Melissa to patch him up right away. They had never mentioned hemophilia and he had been too busy running amuck to ask.

Until he had his first real scare at ten after slicing open the tip of his finger with a kitchen knife. He had tried patching it up by himself, wrapping a clean dish towel around his finger, never the wiser. Hadn’t bothered his dad outside mowing the grass, and had succeeded in passing out and busting his head open on the dining room table. Spent a night in the hospital.

After that he had gorged on the research. Found natural ways to staunch blood flow; flour, cornstarch, coffee. He kept a well-stocked first aid kit in the Jeep and at home with those essential items on top of bandages. Scott even had one stashed in the cabinet in his bathroom, just in case.

With the Jeep at least a half mile away at the edge of the preserve, Stiles had nothing within reach to effectively stop the bleeding. If he didn’t get out of that ditch, shock would soon set in. Already lightheaded, he was well on his way toward that frightening outcome. 

He hiccupped. The anxiety steadily reached new heights and his breathing was hard and rapid, pulse thudding beneath his skin. He needed to move; shove aside the throbbing ache radiating from his bum ankle and get out of there.

Stat. Pronto.

Fingers trembling, he pressed down harder on the compress and tried pushing up and off the ground with his other hand holding him stable against the tree. His vision swayed a little and he blinked hard to clear it. He couldn’t let the panic set in and paralyze him.

He had to move.

He had to…

Barely three feet cleared and he slipped, scraping the heel of his palm along the bark of the tree when he tried grasping for a solid hold. Cursing, he straightened and tried again, hand flat against the trunk. Everything started spinning like a lazy tilt-a-whirl. He felt the faint tickle of blood sliding down his skin, the bunched up flannel of his shirt against the wound useless. He peeled it away from his side, cringed at the wet, splotchy sound it made and watched with a disgusted grimace as fresh blood welled up and saturated the hem of his jeans.

Shit.

His knees buckled and he went down without a shred of dignity or grace. Still had the sense to be grateful no one witnessed yet another one of his clumsy falls. Whatever last bit of energy he had possessed shriveled up and died. Every bone in his body felt cumbersome and achy, weighed down with lead. He was on the precipice of passing out, hypovolemic shock creeping at the edges.

“ _Stiles!_ ”

He froze, sucked in a breath and held it. That sounded a lot like Derek. Grumpy tone and all. Or maybe he was finally hallucinating, his delirious state of mind conjuring a rescue that wasn’t actually coming.   

Several silent beats passed and he heard nothing but the organisms that made the preserve their humble abode. Croaking frogs lulled him. His eyelids slipped shut…  

“ _Stiles!_ ”

He jerked with a raspy sound, eyes shot open wide. His heart leapt in his throat. Waited. Waited. Holding his breath. Seconds later, he caught the distinct rustle of feet stomping through the undergrowth before the width of Derek’s shoulders emerged at the crest of the hill. Just a dark silhouette standing there; a savior in black leather and thick eyebrows. Relief let Stiles breathe easier and he flopped his head back down on the earth, leaves poking at his scalp through sweat-soaked hair.

Derek’s knees pressed against Stiles’ thigh, heat radiating off him like an oven door had suddenly opened, hitting Stiles in a blessed wave of comfort. He gravitated toward the warmth. Desperate for it. Desperate for feeling back in his fingers and toes and every inch of his body. Almost cried when Derek grabbed his frozen hands and wrapped them in his own, siphoning the cold. He drew closer to Stiles. Pulled him up and against his chest, underneath the folds of his soft leather jacket.

God in heaven, that felt good. Stiles whimpered before his jaw locked, chilled spasms spreading through his muscles.  

“What the— what the _hell_? You’re bleeding—”   

Even through a haze of fatigue, Stiles noted the worry dripping from Derek’s tone. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so damn tired.

He swallowed, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. He said hoarsely, “Yeah, that, uh usually happens when humans don’t… listen to their werewolf parents and get in trouble. Bad human…bad.”

Derek’s brows cinched together. He was looking at the cut on Stiles’ side, fingers prodding at the edges of the wound. He pressed his sleeve against it, bearing down weight in an attempt to stop the bleeding and Stiles flinched more from the pressure than any real pain.

“It’s a minor cut, though. Why hasn’t the bleeding stopped?”

Was that panic in Derek’s voice? Nah, Stiles was definitely at that delirium point.   

“Did I forget to mention the one flaw in my DNA?” He pushed out a rickety sigh and closed his eyes. “Oops.”

“Stiles…” Derek’s voice deepened; a warning. His tone saying: _Be serious for once._  

Stiles snapped back with a tiny jolt, blearily staring up at Derek before his lids drooped again. He heard Derek cursing and then maybe something about _shock_ mixed in with more cursing, but Stiles wasn’t paying much attention to the details.

Didn’t even mind Derek was carrying him bridal-style, though vaguely aware of a voice in his head rambling on about damsels in distress and he was _not_ one of them.

Then the world folded in on itself.

 

 

Stiles woke up hot, as if encompassed in twenty layers of thick goose down blankets. Strangely comfortable and fluffy and muscular blankets. Heat like that that only came from a particular source: a werewolf.

He blinked his eyes open, a thick patch of scruff within in his line of sight. That dark beard journeyed up to smooth skin stretched over sharp cheekbones and black lashes fanned over green eyes tiredly peering down at him. 

Derek.

Stiles blinked again. Mouth agape, he just stared.

As much as he wanted to question his sanity and the bizarre reality of Derek holding him close, an arm hooked around his shoulders and lying in Stiles’ bed, his mouth stayed shut. Not just out of shock, but also the startling discovery that Stiles didn’t mind.

His dad definitely would mind, but that was beside the point. Cross that bridge if they ever got to it.   

“How’re you feeling?” Derek’s voice was gruff with sleep.

Stiles wondered how long Derek had been there. Not much made sense after the hospital or the trip home once released. Though he had remembered the overwhelming desire to sleep for a month and nothing else. 

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday. Night.”

“Nngh.” Stiles yawned against Derek’s shoulder, burrowing his face in the blissful warmth.

Didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

A relaxed silence coagulated between them. Stiles dozed drifting on a lazy, weightless cloud.

“Don’t scare me like that again…”

“Can’t make any…promises.”

Derek stiffened beneath him. His fingers resting on Stiles’ arm curled in before splaying, muscles relaxing inch by inch. 

“You’re an idiot,” Derek said under his breath.

“I know.” 


	10. he ain't heavy, he's my brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is combining two requests into one fic. It works out as sort of a divergent of the scene at the beginning of s5b between Stiles and Scott in the hospital. I feel like Scott would've fought harder to get Stiles back than he did in the show. 
> 
> 1st prompt: _a post season five where Scott takes care of a delirious stiles_
> 
> 2nd prompt: _sick!stiles. In the aftermath of Donovan's death and the chaos that follows Stiles neglects to treat the shoulder wound adequately. He gets really sick at school (fever, vomiting, the works) and the Sheriff has to come and pick him up but has no choice but to take him to the hospital. By this point the wound is badly infected and Melissa and soon pin-point the source. wound aftercare and lots of h/c prescribed and administered_

The air thickens with the acrid odor of Stiles’ boiling anger mixed with anxiety that seems a constant prickling beneath the surface of Stiles’ skin as of late. Scott feels it like a stinging slap across the face. He hears Stiles scream at the doctor, demanding answers on what is happening to the Sheriff. Why he isn’t getting better, but worse.

Then Stiles swivels his steely gaze at Scott and it feels as if Stiles propels all his grief, rage, and fear festering in an open wound, slamming it against Scott. He staggers backwards, gasping and blinking hard at the sight of Stiles surging forward with the ferocity of a rabid, frothing bull.

He didn’t anticipate this level of animosity from his friend, but he didn’t anticipate a lot of things lately. Once again blindsided and unable to react with any sort of instinct to protect himself. Somehow finds it ironic that he has the need to do so where it concerns Stiles. Attributes that on the dense fog of wolfsbane poison still clouding his senses.  

If he’s honest with himself though, Scott knows it has a lot more to do with the fear of knowing Stiles is fully capable of this expanse of rage, when his emotions carry him so high above any rational thought. Scott has witnessed the gradual downward spiral with no idea how to stop it. Neglecting Stiles, abandoning him in the parking lot of the vet clinic was definitely a step in the wrong direction.  

Seated within Stiles rises this crazed power that brings Scott down _hard_. Any sort of supernatural strength and speed is rendered useless. Shock rattles Scott more than the physical discomfort of his body slamming against the linoleum floor.

Scott can’t compute beyond the surprise of Stiles on top of him, fingers grasping Scott’s shirt, seconds away from encircling his throat and squeezing tight. His eyes are wild, hot tears streaking his flushed cheeks. Veins bulge on the sides of his neck as he yells at Scott, spittle flying, words spiteful and venomous. Voice cracked and raw, reverberating, piercing down into the marrow of Scott’s bones. He flinches, desperate to shield himself from the barrage of this startling wrath, but he can’t get his arms up. He can’t _move_.

Stabbing through the muddy haze of paralyzing panic, Scott feels the wound on his chest tear open wider, warm blood seeping through the bandage and he snaps back to a vivid and painful clarity. He grits his teeth, shaking fingers grappling for purchase in the cotton of Stiles’ hoodie. Tries to shove Stiles off him, but can’t get the energy he needs for the initial push.

Then he smells it: a sickly stench congealed in blood.

Not his blood or his wound.

Stiles. It’s Stiles bleeding, he’s injured.  

Before Scott can grasp what he is sensing, someone tries pulling Stiles off him. Eyes wild and empty of reason, Stiles clings to Scott’s jacket, fingers curling into fists. He bears his teeth, skin ashen and drenched with sweat. Uses the last thread of his energy to keep a hold of Scott and somewhere that anger fueling him morphs into desperation. He starts babbling but there is no coherency through the heavy haze of delirium blurring Stiles’ judgment.  

“Stiles… _stop_!”

“Let him go!”

“ _Stiles!_ That’s enough—”

A large shadow crowds behind Stiles, taking hold of his shoulders and roughly wrenching him back. Stiles peels out a choking, broken whimper and jolts with a shock of pain. All of the fight evaporates like a switch turning off and Stiles loses every bit of his strength. Scott watches as the sharp lines of rage crumble, Stiles’ brokenness ripping through Scott with a saw-toothed edge. Muscles pliant, limbs boneless, skin almost translucent as it drains of all color. Sweat drips from Stiles’ brow and upper lip, eyelashes clumped with tears.

“Wait—”

Scott jumps to his feet, rushing forward. Stretches his hand toward Stiles, mostly a silent plea for the two male nurses rough handling Stiles to let him go. Knows something is very wrong aside from the menagerie of turmoil and anxiety and anger bristling like a live wire beneath the surface of Stiles’ skin.

Blood splotches the fabric of Stiles’ hoodie around his right shoulder. Not a fresh wound, but old and festering. The smell of rotting flesh coats Scott’s tongue and the back of his throat when he draws closer, and he gags. Berates himself for not noticing until now. Realizes how preoccupied and careless he’s been not to notice an infected wound.

“Let ‘em go,” Scott says through a tremor. “Something’s… He’s hurt.”

Scott catches Stiles before he drops like a puppet with its strings cut. Eyes rolls back into Stiles’ head and his heart rate slows to an irregular crawl as unconsciousness blankets the adrenaline in a dense shroud.

Fingers trembling, Scott peels back the hoodie from Stiles’ shoulder and winces, hissing between clenched teeth. His mom is there, peering over his shoulder with her own grim expression. What looks like teeth marks with swollen and puffy edges, the wound is congealed with puss and blood.

Donovan.

Scott sucks in a breath. Of course. He shuts his eyes, silently berating himself for losing so much focus on the pack, for doubting his friends and letting their bond disintegrate so easily. For letting harm come to his pack and not trusting them. The regret stings worse than the bitter wound on his chest. He has to get them all back. He is weak – they are _all_ weak without each other.

Stiles stirs, a grating moan passing his slack lips. His eyelashes flutter in the brief struggle to open his eyes, clouded over with delirium and discomfort. Without a stray thought, Scott siphons the pain, and it steals the last bit of his energy. Doesn’t regret it, though, as it helps push Stiles into a deeper sleep free of discomfort.

The male nurses who rough-handled Stiles moments before approach and gently move him to a room with a vacant bed. Scott hangs back with his mom’s hand on his shoulder. She is staring up at him with her mouth still drawn in a tight frown. Her eyes are soft, though, conveying the tremendous worry a mother has for her child. Only a few hours she had witnessed him die; her concern for him now tenfold.  

“You need to get some rest,” she says.

Shaking his head, Scott says, “I need to stay with him… make sure he doesn’t wake up alone. I need to be there—”

“You’re no help to anyone like this.” She grabs his shoulders and steers him toward the exit. “I will call you the moment anything changes.”

Despite the authoritarian tone and firm, but gentle nudge at his back, he digs in his heels. “What about the Sheriff? Lydia? I can’t just—”

“Lydia’s mom refuses visitors. There’s nothing you can do for her right now. John is stable enough. He has an infection in his bloodstream, but we’re prepping him to flush it out and pump him full of antibiotics. Given time he’ll recover just fine.”

“But he’ll be okay? Will Stiles be okay? Mom, I… I messed up. I need to fix this.”

Her pacifying smile grounds him in a world that seems turbulent and no respite in sight. It helps stave some of the anxiety pumping the coarse adrenaline through his system. If not for her hand a stable anchor on his arm, he’d collapse. He pulls in a long breath and exhales slowly, dizzy and swaying on his feet. Her small hand squeezes just above his elbow and guides him to a chair at the end of the hall. Instructs him to stay put while she tends to Stiles.

Scott lets the load of fatigue settle deep in his bones. He slouches in the seat, heavy eyelids closing. Regardless of how exhausted he is, he still can’t find rest. He ends up tossing restlessly in the chair, wired and anxious. The need for action has him pacing the length of the hall, pulling at his jacket to hide the blood staining his shirt, and glancing at his wristwatch every thirty seconds. He wants, no _needs_ to do something, to help in some way, but everything that he thought he had control of has slipped through his fingers. Can’t seem to grasp which way is up any more as his world has tilted on its axis.

Without the pack, without his best friend he is just drifting. He feels useless, weak, disoriented. The restlessness only surges through Scott like an electrical shock.

Fifteen torturous minutes drag. He can’t stand waiting any longer. He lingers at the door, watching his mom clean and disinfect the wound on Stiles’ shoulder. She glances at Scott with eyes hardened by intense concentration on the work before her, but still nods for Scott to come in. He sits on a chair angled by the bed, positioned at the edge of the seat with his hands clasped tight between his knees. Watches his mom work, always fascinated by how deft and efficient she is with a needle, her physical presence a balm.  

Stiles is out. His face slack, peaceful, and reminiscent of the once carefree spirit that Scott has clung to from the day he met Stiles on the playground as a toddler. Nostalgia for the pure loyalty and love he and Stiles once had for each other is a deep ache, weighing heavy and disquieting in Scott’s bones.

Tears spill over.

He quickly wipes at his wet face with the sleeve of his jacket, sniffling. Finds his mom staring at him from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything. Not even when she packs up the used supplies, throws out the waste, and then leaves Scott alone with Stiles. She gives him the time he needs with Stiles, though Stiles is unconscious through most of it. Scott doesn’t mind either way. As long as he can stay and watch over Stiles; be there when he wakes up and find some way to rectify the damage done. He has no idea how to get back on track, not when everything around him has derailed, throwing him asunder and whirling from the aftershock.    

When Stiles wakes up a few hours later, he is crawling through the typical haze of groggy confusion as he gathers in his surroundings, blinking eyes open wide. Then he tumbles straight to sharp awareness that has him clutching at his bad shoulder with wide-eyed panic. When he realizes Scott is with him, there’s an odd sense of shame that colors his cheeks, his heartbeat jumping. The heavy pulsation is visible on the side of his neck and it thunders in Scott’s ears. He frowns at Stiles, unsure how he should react or what to say.

“How’s my dad? Is he—?”

Stiles pushes up on his elbows, ready to swing his legs around and stand, but drops back down, wobbly and weak from the sedative and his shoulder unable to hold him upright. His face twitches with a pained grimace. Though he’s quick to brush off Scott’s attempt at helping him settle back on the bed, giving Scott a haggard glare. Warning him to stay away, that whatever trust remains between them is thin and fraying.      

“He’s stable, he’s good…” Scott says, lowering into the chair with a defeated hunch he can’t hide. “How are you?”

Stiles ignores the question.

Scott will take this side of indifference from Stiles over anger any day. But expecting their friendship to mend without repercussions is a balloon popping loud against Scott’s eardrums. His chest feels like it is cracking open wide, the chasm getting deeper as Stiles just stares at him, unfazed by the apparent kicked puppy look Scott is conveying. He sighs and turns his gaze toward the covered windows. Away from Scott. The silent message blatant and loud, slamming against Scott’s aching chest with the force of a bat swinging at a baseball. He figures he should leave, give Stiles his space.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles’ voice is gruff, scraping his vocal chords like rough sandpaper along concrete. He still doesn’t look at Scott. “You made it pretty clear at the clinic you didn’t want anything to do with me after you found out about Donovan.”

“I—” Scott closes his mouth; the words he needs to say not coming as easy as he expected. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but somehow the guilt closes the lid tight. Not that he doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t know how he can make it right again. He messed up. Stiles took the brunt of that by Scott’s misguided rejection.

Not only Stiles, but also Lydia. Malia. Kira. Liam. All of them affected in some way that will take more than just apologies to rectify.

A breath shudders out of Stiles, his body shaking. His eyes close, hands curling into fists in the bed sheets. Scott sees the wetness glistening on Stiles’ face, crying silently, broken and alone. Even with Scott in the room, a few feet away, and Stiles is alone. Scott can smell that realization settling hard within Stiles like a boulder on his chest making it difficult catching his breath.  

“I really needed you to trust me,” Stiles says through a coarse whisper, looking back at Scott. His gaze is hollow, sadness pouring out like an arterial wound. “Of everyone… you mattered the most.”

Scott chokes on his words and swallows hard, a swell of tears track down his cheeks. He nods while shifting forward on the edge of the seat, wringing his hands. As if that can get rid of the blood, the anger, and the overpowering weight of shame over Theo’s manipulation dirtying Scott’s hands. He has to find a way and make it right. Restore what was lost and fragmented. He clings to that tiny shred of hope flickering in a low flame. He has to keep that small bit of light shining, blotting out whatever dismal circumstance tries rearing its ugly head.  

“He fooled you,” Stiles says. “He fooled all of us.” 

The load of that statement is a heavy stone dropped on Scott’s shoulders, but he unequivocally agrees. And knowing that Stiles is thinking the same as Scott gives him comfort, gives him that boost he has desperately needed, even if the truth behind the statement can be hard to swallow. The blind trust given to Theo wrecked them all, but they have a chance of rebuilding. Maybe even rise out of this stronger than before.        

“I can’t do this… any of it without you,” Scott says. “You’re the Obi-Wan to my Yoda, or—”

A sudden and tremulous laugh bursts out of Stiles before he stops, lines of pain pinching at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His shoulders curl in and a thin sheet of sweat dots his flushed skin. No doubt his shoulder is screaming from all the irritating Melissa had to do to get the wound flushed out and clean, now that the pain meds have worn off.

Scott leans forward, hand outstretched, but still hesitating. Requesting permission to place his hand over Stiles’ arm shining bright in his eyes, in the slight lift of his brows. Seeking forgiveness. Seeking refuge within the comforts of a friendship not yet lost.

Stiles blinks owlishly at him, silent for a long beat before he sighs and extends his hand toward Scott.

Such a small, simple action but it means everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on my Tumblr: [itsfeistyred](http://itsfeistyred.tumblr.com/)


	11. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _I was wondering if you could do/add a Stiles has a seizure fic (either through being ill/injury or idiopathic/no known cause) to your to do prompt list?_

Stiles started acting funny a little after the pack came over to the loft for movie night. Derek usually let him stay later on those nights when the Sheriff’s shift pushed into the late night and early morning hours. Not that Stiles needed a babysitter, and Derek never protested the company either.

Though Stiles seemed off — little petty things annoying him — no one thought to speak up about it. No doubt thinking Stiles was having an off day, internally stressing about something or another. Not even when he’d get agitated by Scott and Isaac having a popcorn tossing competition, mostly losing and leaving a mess on the floor, or Erica tracking in mud. Stuff like that would have bothered Derek or maybe Boyd more than anyone.

That’s why Derek stayed vigilant, keeping Stiles in his line of vision throughout the night. He couldn’t explain why or how, but he was anticipating something more than an outburst brought on by stress.

Once the pack left a little after midnight, leaving a mess of coke cans, empty pizza boxes and popcorn bowls for Stiles and Derek to pick up, Derek felt the fine hairs on his neck and arms stand up. Sensed the crackle of electric energy slither up his spine, tensing muscles ready for action. He looked at Stiles, saw him standing in the kitchen with a clouded over gaze. Derek choked out a yell — a warning too late — seconds before Stiles’ eyes rolled back inside his head and he dropped like a stone. He hit the edge of the counter with his shoulder, but the impact barely registered as his body stiffened on the floor, attacked by an invisible Taser gun.

It all happened so fast. Too quick for Derek’s hyper senses and speed. Still, he surged forward, pulling Stiles onto his lap. Held him close as the violent spasms locked up his joints. Blood gushed out of his mouth; his teeth had cut clean through his tongue.

Other than keeping Stiles rolled over on his side to stop from choking on his blood, Derek felt helpless. He could count on one hand how many times he had called for an ambulance, this time included. Aside from worrying and dreading and letting Stiles ride out the seizure, he couldn’t do anything but wait for help to come. He wished he could do something more apart from stroking his hand over Stiles’ forehead, through his sweat soaked hair as some attempt at soothing.

This wasn’t like with Erica. Derek couldn’t break Stiles’ arm to reverse the symptoms.

He fought hard to push down the disgust as warm wetness soaked through Stiles’ pants and onto his own clothes, the smell of urine stinging the back of Derek’s throat. It ripped a new line of pity through his chest. He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, blinking with a groan passing his clenched teeth as he struggled not to let the tears run down his face.

Once again Derek was painfully reminded of Stiles’ frailty as a human. Along with his stupid tenacity to not inform the pack of injuries until he’d either collapsed or the stench of blood and pain overpowered all senses, forcing him to admit he had been hurt in some way. Always preoccupied with caring for others, Stiles failed to do the same for himself.

Derek admired and loathed that about Stiles.

Thirty seconds ticked by like a snail.

Sixty, then ninety.

The seizure didn’t last much longer after that, the spasms releasing their hold on Stiles’ muscles and he finally went limp in Derek’s arms. Those two minutes felt like hours. Long and torturous and crippling Derek with the astounding pressure of worry. Waiting for the ambulance didn’t make it any better. He held Stiles tighter in his arms, gentle hands rubbing Stiles’ back, combing through his hair.

The sense of helplessness was still a cumbersome load on Derek’s chest. He felt weak, powerless as he waited for humans to help. Not that he considered them beneath him, but the stark realization he couldn’t do a damn thing for Stiles. Something like this went beyond his supernatural expertise and he didn’t like it. Every time Stiles got hurt the need to give him the bite increased. But Stiles clung to his humanity with resolve, no matter how badly the rope burned along the way.

Stiles slowly came around once the paramedics arrived, bounding inside the house with a stretcher in tow, barking out questions at Derek. He told them what he could of the symptoms and reluctantly let go of Stiles. Soon those capable hands and minds flurried around Stiles with ease, testing his reflexes and speech capability. Derek was forced back and the itch to shove them all out of the way and take care of Stiles himself crawled up his back in a sharp, unsettling tremor. He curled his hands into fists, mentally restraining his instinct.

Initial confusion that twisted Stiles’ face quickly gave way to terror with the distinct panicked look of unrecognition. With the whites of his eyes shining bright, Stiles searched in his peripheral, his chest heaving with an oncoming anxiety attack. Derek stepped in view and a relieved sob scraped out of Stiles’ throat. He struggled to catch his breath, panting, and reached out for Derek, mindless of the two male medics tending to him, trying to keep him steady and immobile on the stretcher.

Derek didn’t even think and he already cleared the distance in one stride, grabbing Stiles’ hand. Surprised by the strength Stiles possessed as he squeezed.

“Wh—what’s happening? Derek…what happened? Why are they—?”

Derek tightened his own grip on Stiles’ hand, and didn’t let go even when the blonde female medic urged him. Instead, he said to Stiles, his focus all on Stiles, “You had a seizure.”

That was a complete surprise to Stiles, his eyes growing bigger and more frightened. “Wh—what? What?”

The female, her name Bette, asked, “Have you had one before? Do you have a history of epilepsy?”

Stiles’ eyes flicked from her back to Derek and then back, brows scrunched so far inward Derek was sure it hurt. “I… I don’t know. No, I don’t know. What’s happening to me?”

“The after effects of the seizure are causing confusion. It’s a normal symptom. A lot of strain was put on your brain. That weird feeling you’re having right now will soon pass in a few days.”

Stiles pulled in a long, shaky breath, nodding. But his eyes locked on Derek, seeking his affirmation above all. Derek kept his fingers entwined with Stiles’ and he gave a silent, firm nod. Hoped to all hell he was right in giving Stiles comfort in that promise. It seemed utterly empty, dread overpowering at the possibility of Stiles not getting better, always haunted by the expectancy of when the next one would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on my Tumblr: [itsfeistyred](http://itsfeistyred.tumblr.com/)


	12. crashing, hit a wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _I remember I asked someone before but they couldn't write this- I'm really hoping you can write a short fic about stiles experiencing symptoms of sub drop after the Nogitsune b/c of the adrenaline crash and just complete lack of energy that throws him upside down and Derek notices and helps :D_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am basing this fic prompt solely on the information I found on Google concerning symptoms of sub-drop. Since I don’t have experience writing sexual play involving sub space and also because Stiles’ symptoms are not a result of sexual play, this may seem off from what someone may actually go through. I hope I do the request justice, though.

Derek’s loft has a revolving door. Day and night, there’s always someone coming or going. Whether it’s Peter creeping around like he doesn’t actually have an apartment of his own, ransacking the fridge or supplying nonsensical snarky remarks; or Isaac curled around a pillow on the sofa after a nasty nightmare; or Stiles flopping his arms while running his mouth a million miles a second over a new plan to stop the latest supernatural threat; or even the numerous threats barging through that door. Derek’s home is a refuge for him and the close knit group of teenagers he has grown to love as his family, that void in his heart quickly filling.

So, it’s no surprise when Stiles shows up on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

What does fire off the panic receptors is Stiles’ scent radiating a myriad of disturbing emotions, along with the complete lack of noise that is _Stiles_. Stiles is loud. Always. Grace is not a term in Stiles’ anatomical vocabulary. More often he is obnoxious with little to no stealth capabilities, blundering his way through life like a blaring fog horn… but oddly Derek appreciates the quirky nuances that make up who Stiles is. He prefers Stiles’ twitchy fingers and facial tics to the nonexistent brain-to-mouth filter and his sharp mind over someone older or calmer.       

Derek sits up, feet planted firm on the floor. Muscles are tense, his body ready to spring into action. “Stiles? What is it?”

A foreign sound comes out of Stiles’ throat. Unlike anything Derek has heard come from a human, more like an animal in distress, and it rips an icy line of dread along his spine. Stiles’ silhouette takes a wobbly half-step forward and then all long, gangly limbs fold in like a flimsy lawn chair. Derek surges to his feet and runs, covers the distance in a seamless stride and catches Stiles before his head smacks the floor.

Derek carries Stiles to the bed, his body limp and heavy in his arms, but he is still conscious. Barely. Murmuring nonsense, fingers weak but grasping the cotton of Derek’s shirt like it is the only thing keeping him afloat. When Derek tries prying his hands away, more so to assess whatever is wrong with Stiles from a better vantage, Stiles clings harder and whines. The sound is choked, laced with hysteria. His eyes reflecting the same frenzy, rattling Derek to stillness and he sinks down on the bed, lying beside Stiles. He notices Stiles is barefoot, the soles of his feet black with dirt.

Did he _walk_ here? Surely not…

Whatever is wrong, Stiles is at least not physically injured. No smell of blood or seeping wounds. No signs of broken bones, either. That rules out immediate medical attention, but Derek can’t stop the gnawing worry. Something is not right. Stiles’ heartbeat is an unsteady thrum against his own ribcage. He tastes the anxiety dripping from Stiles’ pores and feels the small and random hitched breaths that jar him against Derek like hiccups. He keeps wavering between a state of delirium and lucidity. One second he’s aware of his surroundings, of who’s holding him, and then he’s tumbling back through a dense fog of confusion. When Derek thinks Stiles is under control he freaks out again, weakly thrashing in Derek’s arms and voice wrung out from yelling.

Derek wants to scream. Not at Stiles, but the helpless situation he is thrust into with no answers or even the right questions on what is going on. Like a vicious circle, this goes on throughout the night battling to calm Stiles down and figure out _something_. All Derek can think to do is hold Stiles and reassure him with soothing words against Stiles’ ear. Nothing Stiles says makes sense, though Derek catches snippets of words and familiar names, but nothing concrete to figure out what Stiles is thinking or what is wrong with him.

Something psychological is throwing Stiles asunder. All signs lead back to the Nogistune, but the spirit is gone, defeated nearly a week ago.

Or has it?

Derek shoves that thought away before it can fester. This… it has to be the side effects of the possession. It’s the best explanation. Post adrenaline rush on top of several weeks of no sleep finally crashing Stiles’ system into total disarray.    

Eventually the exhaustion tosses Stiles into a deep sleep and Derek is relieved. He slumps against the mattress, head flopping back on the pillow beneath him as he pushes out a long breath. He uncurls his body from around Stiles, but remains by his side listening as Stiles’ breathing evens out along with his pulse.

Soon Derek is lulled into a light doze. When his cell phone buzzes on the bedside table, he jerks awake, not realizing he slept. Not more than an hour according to the clock lit up on the phone’s screen. It is still dark outside. He rubs the heels of his palms against his eyelids before skimming through several text messages streaming in from Scott, all panicky and full of caps lock and exclamation points, asking if Derek has seen Stiles.

Glancing at Stiles, Derek replies with the obvious.

More unnecessary caps lock and text speech and Derek rolls his eyes at the blatant absence of grammar – what are they teaching these kids in school? – but then he stiffens when Scott tells him Stiles left his Jeep in the driveway, engine running, and his phone on the driver’s seat. That explains Stiles’ dirty feet.

Derek calls Scott. When he picks up, Derek asks without preamble, “Is this the first time he’s done this?”

Scott sighs. “As far as I know, yeah. But he’s been acting weird the last few days. Like not possessed weird, more like he’s depressed…tired…moody. I don’t know how else to explain it, man. I thought it was because of what all happened after Allison—” He sucks in a breath and lets it out slow. “But I don’t know. We talked about that. I told him it wasn’t his fault. None of it was. But you know Stiles…”  

Derek frowns. He stares at Stiles’ slack face, cataloging the deep purple bruising under his eyes, his sickly pallor and hollow cheeks. Without thinking Derek brushes the pad of his thumb across Stiles’ brow, smooths out the faint crease lines and relaxes a little more when Stiles snuffles against his side. Whatever anxiety may have lingered seems gone and Derek is all the more grateful.

Maybe it is because of all the havoc and death the Nogistune streaked across town, but maybe it’s more than that. Puzzle pieces start aligning the longer Derek mulls over the symptoms before the internal light bulb flares on with an idea.

“Sub drop,” he says aloud, as if that solidifies his theory.   

“Sub… what?”  

“It’s a term used in the BDSM culture for symptoms a submissive can experience after sexual play. If there is no aftercare, they bottom out after the adrenaline crashes. Usually brings on feelings of depression and disorientation. Similar to what Stiles is going through, but I’m sure guilt plays a big part too.”

Scott stammers, “Uhhh…”

“The Nogistune was a dominant inside of Stiles for several weeks, keeping him awake beyond the limit of human capacity, forcing him through one high after another… with no rest in between. Once the spirit was gone, Stiles bottomed out.”  

Scott is silent for a long beat before letting out a rattled breath. “Oh. Wow.”

“This is just a theory, but it’s the only explanation I can think of for the way he was acting earlier.”

“Will he… will he be okay?”

Derek has no clue, but he is considering that Stiles hasn’t woken up with any more bouts of confusion or showing signs of distress – actually sleeping deep and peaceful – Derek is leaning more on a positive outcome. After the void of the spirit in his body, the lack of stimulation has thrown Stiles upside down. From what Derek knows about the terms surrounding sub-drop and aftercare, physical touch and sleep are the best remedies.

“Tell the Sheriff he’s safe here, but try and be subtle about what you tell him. I’ll keep an eye on Stiles and figure out something later and call you.” He ends the call and settles down alongside Stiles, hooking an arm under Stiles’ neck and pulling him close. Derek relaxes into an easy, quiet rhythm listening to Stiles’ heartbeat and soon falls asleep himself.  

It is well past dawn when Derek wakes up to Stiles staring up at him with doe eyes unblinking and brimming with disbelief. His body is stiff as a board along Derek’s side, his pulse thundering in his chest with the threat of beating right out of his throat. A given since Stiles probably doesn’t remember much or coming here.  

For a long, silent moment, Derek stares back before he supplies, “You walked here last night. Do you remember?”

Stiles blinks owlishly, mouth dropping open. “I…” He blinks again, shaking his head, clearing the fog muddling his brain. “What?” He looks about the loft with a film over his eyes, but when he groans and scrunches his eyes closed, Derek knows recollection is catching up hard and fast. “Shit, I don’t... What did I do? Am I going to regret it?”

Derek fills him in, watching Stiles’ face morph through different stages of puzzlement to mortification. It is purely reflex based off the circumstances when Derek squeezes Stiles’ shoulder, and Derek is surprised when Stiles relaxes into the touch, releasing a slow breath through his nose. Physical contact is the main thing grounding him through the apparent turbulence in his head.

Keeping his hand on the curve of Stiles’ shoulder, Derek asks, “Has this been going on since the Nogistune was defeated?”

Stiles stares at Derek’s jawline for a long beat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Y-yeah…feels like it. Definitely different than when it was inside me or when we split. I don’t feel like I’m dying. More like reality was tilted and I didn’t know which way was up.”

Chin resting on the crown of Stiles’ head, Derek nods. Any normal circumstance, Derek would question the proximity and put Stiles at arm’s length. More for legality sake and keeping the Sheriff from impulsively shooting Derek. In fact, normal situations would have them bickering rather than cuddling.

Not that Derek is complaining, he’ll be damned if he admits anything out loud.

“Thank you,” Stiles says. “I don’t know—I… you were the first person I thought of. You’re not upset, right?”

Derek huffs out a short laugh. “Why would I be? I’m just glad you didn’t end up in a ditch or something.”

“Yeah, that would suck,” Stiles breathes, sounding relieved.   

Derek’s lips twitch with a small smile, his fingers ruffling Stiles’ hair. “Sleep, Stiles. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on my Tumblr: [itsfeistyred](http://itsfeistyred.tumblr.com/)


	13. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Stiles is kidnapped by the alpha pack. Is stubborn and difficult the entire time. They torture him just for kicks and Derek and Scott find him._

John’s cruiser was in the driveway, but the house was quiet, dark. Too ominous for Stiles’ liking. With his perpetual state of paranoia, he immediately thought the worst. No matter the late hour in the night, which likely meant John was asleep after a grueling shift rather than suffering one of the many macabre scenarios bouncing around in Stiles’ brain. In a world where supernatural threats were an almost daily occurrence, Stiles had every right to worry.

Finding the living room in the same condition as he had left it that morning didn’t subdue Stiles’ anxiety. Holding his breath and listening, he crept toward the stairs, stepping over a pile of books and notes for a chemistry project due at the end of the week that he had barely started on.

A hand closed around his throat. Stiles reacted instinctively, twisting in the grip and brought his elbow up for a blow. He struck solid flesh again and again, but the hand didn’t let go. Instead it tightened, and Stiles’ heart crawled up his throat when gleaming red eyes appeared in his peripheral followed by a deep growl, warning him to stay still. Panic had other plans and Stiles kept swinging his arms. He saw the doorframe careening toward his face, but he was out before he felt any pain.  

Stiles woke up lying in the backseat of a car, blindfolded and gagged and trussed up like a calf at a rodeo before a fist smacked the side of his face and sent him reeling back into oblivion. The second time he came around he was in a huge space in some derelict building, his hands chained above him to a steel rebar jutting through a gaping hole in the cinderblock wall behind his back.   

Assessing his current prison took a lot more effort than normal with his vision pinched and graying at the edges along with the nauseating curdle in his stomach. His head felt like an over-inflated balloon ready to pop.

Concussion. Fantastic.

Nausea ebbed and flowed in sluggish waves. When he thought he finally had reprieve after a wave receded, the next started rolling in, his stomach knotting. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, clothes sticky and stifling and wrists slick beneath the metal cuffs. He tried gathering his legs under him in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure on his arms and work at freeing his hands. Anticipated the rebar had some give in it, but it was inconveniently and permanently lodged in its cement foundation.  

Soon the strain of kneeling was a stinging ache from his kneecaps to his shins. He tried standing, but the awkward height of the rebar kept him hunched over and dizzy. In the end he resorted back to sitting and assessed his surroundings with an exasperated sigh.

He was in the abandoned mall on the outer rim of town, somewhere on the second floor tucked inside an alcove. City’s tight budgets had kept the demolition on hold and years of weather and vandalism wrecked an already damaged structure to the point of collapse. Stiles had frequented the property with Scott back in the day when all they had to worry about was being typical teenagers trying not to get caught by police. Despite the off limits signs posted all over the perimeter, most teenagers ignored the rules and made the mall a prime location to hang out on weekends with booze and weed the highlight of the parties.

Stiles was alone, moonlight still filtering through the several patches of missing roof, but not for long. From his vantage, he observed the various graffiti on the chipped walls and floors before spotting a silhouette approaching. A metal pipe scraped like nails on a chalkboard as it dragged along the cement floor. The sound sent slivers of pain through Stiles’ skull. He shut his eyes and burrowed his face in the crook of his arm, a pathetic effort at escaping the sound grating the sensitive organs in his ears.

Kali sauntered over with the grace of a sleek panther stalking its prey, but she made sure to heighten the pain stabbing every inch of Stiles’ brain by banging and scraping the metal pipe on any hard surface she came across along the way. Stiles mustered a nasty glare, but fell short when he recoiled at the increasing, nauseating pressure of his brain.  

“Aw, I didn’t hit you too hard, did I sweetheart?” Kali feigned remorse with a pout.

He wet his lips. “To be honest, you suck. I had a rickety old man hit me harder, but who’s keeping score really?”

Stiles’ eyes flicked all over her wiry frame down to her bare feet and disgusting claws clicking on the floor with a monotonous _clackclackclack._ He anticipated the bunching of muscle and a rebuttal with a fist at the end, but nothing came. She just laughed, a soft titter that shook her shoulders and crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“I like you, kid.”

Tone full of cynicism, Stiles said, “Funny, I’m not getting that impression at all. Where’s my dad?”

Squatting in front of him, the pipe laid across her knees, her stare regarded Stiles as if he was a pesky insect she wanted to flatten under the sole of her foot. Not far from the truth, he knew where he stood in the hierarchy of things, being the vulnerable human and all. He’d seen that look once before, in Gerard, before the old man had used Stiles as a punching bag just to send a message to Scott. Kali and the Alphas weren’t any different, the goals ultimately the same. Use the human by any means necessary to achieve compliance from enemies. It was days like this Stiles really hated his mortal existence or his affiliation with werewolves.      

Kali grinned, sickly-sweet. An involuntary shiver raced up Stiles’ spine and goose bumps broke out on his arms. He ground his teeth when the unease tripped his already frantic heartbeat, and knew she heard the blip when her smile widened. Her eyes roamed over Stiles before she reached forward and snaked her fingers through his hair. Yet again, regretting the decision to grow it out. Stupid villains and their need to pull his hair. He flinched, but had nowhere to go once his back connected with the wall behind him.

Not yet tightening her grip, she said, “I don’t have to explain why you’re here, because you’re a smart boy, right? The clever human pet.”

“Depends on who you got your information from,” Stiles said. “I’ve been known to contradict a lot of assumptions about my personality.”

Her smirk broadened, revealing the perfectly straight line of her white teeth, fangs descended. “I can see why they keep you around.”

“And here I thought I won the millionth customer award at the Kum-n-Go mart. Damn. They have the best nachos. It’d be nice to have an unlimited supply,” Stiles said, nervously licking his dry lips. Again and again before he swallowed when the anxiety trickled up his throat. His voice shook. “Seriously, though. Where’s my dad?”

Kali sighed. “Safe at home, sleeping I’m sure. We have no need for him,” she said and traced one clawed fingertip along the line of his cheekbone before resting on his bottom lip. “Just you, sweetheart. You’re the VIP at this little party.”

Stiles trembled with revulsion from Kali’s unwanted touch and also relief, hoping her word was solid and Stiles’ dad was indeed safe. If the Alphas didn’t have that leverage over Stiles he had no problem fighting them with any line of defense he could think of.  

“Hey, where’d you get your nails done? I have to say, whoever it was does a craptastic job. I would demand my money back if I were you.”

Kali bared her teeth with a hiss, more from cold amusement than irritation. The hand she had tangled in his hair yanked his head back and he couldn’t hold back the sharp, startled cry. 

“Derek and Scott won’t join your little club just because you decided I was prime ribs for your blackmailing scheme,” he said through clenched teeth, staring at her over the line of his nose.  

“I think you give them too much credit. You’re their weakness. Of course it will work,” she said, humming through that vindictive smile. “I’ll just have to give them better incentive. What do you think?”

Stiles groaned, rolling his eyes. A tiny voice in his head grew louder, telling him to shut up, but his mouth refused to cooperate.

“Wow. First of all, it’s obvious what I think doesn’t have a chance in this conversation. Second, do you bad guys have a special school you all go to? The monologue is nuts. I can’t believe you actually get away with it,” he said. “World domination here, maiming there, vendettas like nobody’s business. Blah blah blah… It’s so boring.”

Silence.

He swallowed, squirming in the discomforting hold fisted in his hair. Not the best idea to egg her on with petty jibes, especially someone so volatile and blood-thirsty that the slightest trigger could set her off. His inner voice screamed, _Abort! Abort!_ No turning back, though. At this point in his young life, he couldn’t go on regretting every time his filter decided to shut down.  

With his hair still caught in her grip, she dropped the pipe and brushed her claws against the bunched up cotton of his shirt, snaking underneath and causing his abdomen muscles to shrink away. The skin of her palm was hot, but Stiles shivered, teeth chattering.

“Then let me spice things up a bit for you,” she said with a deadly cool edge in her voice, eyes igniting red and wicked.

“S-stop.”

She laughed, low and deep in her throat with no intention of listening and drew closer until her nose nudged against the carotid artery at his neck, her fangs catching the skin over the pulse. Stiles’ heart rocketed, making him dizzy. He pressed his back harder against the wall with a vain hope he could dissolve into the cinderblock and disappear.

“Beg me,” Kali breathed along his neck, nipping skin, taunting the bite. “Beg like the pussy human you are. C’mon…”

Chest heaving, Stiles opened his mouth with an insult on his tongue, but a suave British voice interrupted. Stiles found it disturbing that he was relieved. Deucalion was not exactly the cavalry Stiles hoped for, but at least he deterred Kali from further harassment.

“Now Kali, dear, is that any way to treat our guest?”

Kali pulled away, but the malignant grin didn’t let up. Stiles hissed, sucking in his stomach when her claws grazed a little too rough and deep, the cuts stinging like fire. Afraid she was going to gut him despite Deucalion’s presence, Stiles kicked at her and succeeded in throwing her off balance for a second before she slapped a hand down on his legs to keep him still.

“Try that again and I’ll break them,” she said through snarling lips.  

“Go hump a leg, bitch.”

He should’ve kept his mouth shut; he knew he screwed himself over the moment the words tumbled out, and Kali’s gaze switched from playfully malicious to full on vengeful. Still, he was shocked when Kali actually went through with her threat. She snatched his right leg, just under the knee joint and twisted with a single, swift pull. He heard the crunch and snap of bone before the pain ignited like a brand through every nerve ending in his leg, stealing his voice in a dry gasp. His body bucked, lungs burning through shallow pants, tears stinging. He lingered on the verge of throwing up; bile burned the lining of his throat.

“Kali, we do need him alive.”

Deucalion’s warning was like a pathetic tap on the wrist rather than exuding the authoritarian bite it should have. He was the only one that could stop Kali, but he idly stood by, propped on the end of his cane with a smug smile. Stiles wished the heat of his glare could melt the self-satisfaction off Deucalion’s face.

Kali dug her claws in the meat of Stiles’ calf muscle and he screamed, jerking away violently. He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood. Vision grayed with fuzzy black dots dancing after he had smacked the back of his head on the wall. A skull-splitting headache surged, not only from the blunt impact with the wall but also from the splinters of agony from every wound inflicted, scrambling his focus on a particular center of hurt. He collapsed, hanging from his wrists, panting in the bend of his arm. A cold sweat broke out on his skin, leaving him nauseous and weak. 

“Oh, I really want to keep you,” Kali said with a sneer. “Turn you into my little bitch and make you scream.”

A wrecked sob shook him hard, but he swallowed down the rest, letting the spasms of aftershock ripple through him like little jolts of electricity attacking at random. He had his fair share of broken bones before – that sort of jarring, lingering pain you’d never forget, but this tipped the scale on an entirely new level of hurt. 

“Have anything else to say, pet?”

The look in Kali’s eyes practically begged for Stiles to rebut and dig that hole deeper for himself. He pressed his lips in a firm line and looked away from her jeering stare. She seemed quite pleased, the thin smile curving the side of her mouth into something foul, not a shred of compassion in her body. Stiles wanted to punch the malign smirk from her pretty face.  

“Sit tight, Stiles. You have a few hours before your friends get my message,” Deucalion said, “And then you may return home.”

Stiles coughed up a derisive laugh, glaring at them over the curve of his elbow; tried ignoring the slight tremor in his arms but failed. “Right. If you were gonna let me walk outta here alive, you wouldn’t’ve broken my leg. Thanks for that. Completely unnecessary, by the way.”

Deucalion lifted his brows high above the rim of his sunglasses. “Whether you live or die, that is of no concern to me. You are a casualty of war. An innocent bystander caught in the crossfires, but one that will prove useful in my endeavor to persuade your friends for my cause. Trust me when I say that Kali can easily make your stay with us far worse.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Deucalion. “Am I supposed to thank you for keeping your lapdog from mauling me to death? Guess what, I’m not. Your little _endeavor_ is pointless. My friends won’t help you. I won’t let them.”

Kali patted Stiles’ head with a mock expression of endearment, lips pouting and batting her eyelashes. “You’re cute, kid. To think you actually have a say.”  

Stiles opened his mouth with an insult, but snapped it shut when Kali crowded his space. He flinched away from her, his body instinctively reacting with the fear of more harm coming, but she only gagged him with a thick strip of cloth tied around his head. She stepped back, half in shadow, her eyes glowing. Snapped a picture of Stiles with his own cell phone and turned to leave.

“See ya, Stiles.”

Stiles pushed out a trembling breath through his nose once Kali and Deucalion disappeared from sight. He sagged in his restraints, his body shaking with silent, body jerking sobs. Pain so sharp and hot heightened the fear and worry tenfold. He didn’t find any rest while he waited for the inevitable rescue squad to arrive. He knew Derek and Scott would come with eyes blazing and claws out, ready and willing to fulfill their heroic call, no matter the threats hanging over their own heads.

The Alphas knew it too, or they wouldn’t have singled out Stiles as the frail and helpless human sacrifice that always needed saving. Stiles’ capture was luring them into a corner with no way out and he loathed being that pawn. He loathed his helplessness and inability to help in the fight.

Guilt burned like a nasty rush of reflux. Along with it the bitter truth that Stiles was screwed sideways either way he looked at it. Maybe he should have taken the bite from Peter, but he had no promise the outcome would’ve ended the same with Derek killing Peter or if his body would’ve accepted the bite.

Reflecting on what ifs had no way of redirecting his predicament as the Alphas’ hostage. He had no choice but to wait for the fallout of whatever fight Derek and Scott decided to bring to the meeting.

Exhaustion from pain threw Stiles into a fitful doze. He lost stretches of time, not knowing how long he hung there by his wrists without relief. Remembered little other than waves of pain that ranged from a dull ache to a searing sensation that threatened to pull him under completely only to jolt him back to awareness when he’d slumped too far and his broken leg shifted. He bit down hard on the cloth wedged between his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, hands fisted and tears sprouting from the corners of his lids.

Minutes seemed like hours. Comfort was not an option, physically or mentally. He was thirsty and hungry and cold. Somewhere in the distance he heard the echo of a continuous _dripdripdrip_ that sent him into an over-stimulated state of frenzy. He wanted to scream, thrash around and get the hell out of there. Knowing he was trapped made the situation all the more agonizing.

Even when the burning in his leg had dissipated to a dull throb, he was still rewarded with an endless stream of pain. If he moved even the slightest, that twinge fired back with a nasty vengeance, stealing his breath in a rough hiccup. The swelling around his knee had grown to ten times its size since he’d been stuck there and he couldn’t stop worrying more damage was done than he could see beyond the bruised surface.

Somehow, Stiles’ mind wandered away from the pain as he thought of how he would explain this new set of injuries to his dad. If he made it out— No. _When_ he made it out alive. Though bleak the situation may be, Stiles refused to give up on that small shred of hope.

Shoe on grit, pebble chunks of cement skittered, and his eyes flew open, staring blearily at the hulking shape of Ennis kneeling in front of him. Steeling his gut reaction from jerking away, Stiles remained still and held his breath. It was time. Derek and Scott must have arrived. Stiles’ heart sank in spite of that tiny spark of elation that they did come to his rescue – not that he doubted them – but immediately deflated after reality kicked in. Derek and Scott stepped into that trap without hesitation, all for Stiles, and the guilt wanted to eat him up.   

Ennis said nothing, which Stiles didn’t expect him to. The alpha didn’t need to talk any smack when he showed his brutality with physical strength instead.

He released Stiles from the rebar, but kept his hands chained in front of him. If not for the gag, Stiles would have voiced his annoyance over the restraints. He blew out a scoff through his nose and rolled his eyes. Really, what did they think he was capable of with a mangled leg? He could bite at their legs, maybe, if not for the hindrance tied around his head.  

No surprise that Ennis ignored Stiles’ obvious irritation. Face impassive, he barely considered Stiles as little more than a fly. He hoisted Stiles off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all and draped him over a shoulder. The swift movement and change in perspective had Stiles’ head spinning. He closed his eyes and winced with every step Ennis took that pushed Stiles’ injuries to an all new pinnacle of pain. At some point he passed out and came back around with the heart-skipping sense of falling before he collided with the ground in an undignified and violent smack on the concrete.

Frayed nerves ignited and he gnashed his teeth around the cloth, wriggling for some sort of comfortable position. No luck. Not with his leg throbbing. He winced and pushed up, putting all his weight on his arms to sit. Muscles trembled, his breath coming short and fast.

He blinked back fresh tears, frantically searching for his friends. That spark of hope died as he realized, dread building in his chest, that he was alone with the Alpha pack. Deucalion stood at the base of a rusted escalator, hands propped on his cane, complacent grin in place. Kali and the twins flanked the blind werewolf and Ennis barely two feet behind Stiles.

“Your friends bailed on you. Didn’t even consider our proposition to trade,” Kali said. Arms crossed over her chest, she peered down at Stiles with distaste, nose curling as if he reeked. “That’s not a good sign for you.”

Stiles swallowed thick, biting down on the cloth between his teeth. He looked at each werewolf with a careful scrutiny, trying to anticipate what they’d do next, as much as he didn’t want to know. Heartrate ratcheting in his throat, he couldn’t avoid showing how frightened he was. For once he was thankful for the gag preventing any superfluous babble from spilling out in his amplifying state of terror.   

“We think a little more encouragement is in store,” Deucalion said, dropping his hands and stepping forward. “Obviously our previous message didn’t convey my sincerity in the matter.”

Like dutiful guard dogs, the twins followed close behind Deucalion, but they couldn’t hide unease from constricting their identical features. At least those two had somewhat of a conscience, though buried deep out of fear of Deucalion’s wrath. There was no penance for their actions, whether compelled by blind fear or following to gain masochistic power.   

Stiles blinked up at Deucalion. Self-preservation had him shuffling backward before the pain from his leg stopped him short, sweat breaking out on his skin. He felt the toes of Ennis’ shoes poke his kidneys and his spine stiffened, breath stalled.

Alone. Stiles was alone, with no way out of this alive. Upset, but more surprised than anything that his friends didn’t show. He couldn’t stop wondering why. Either they planned on some surprise coup when the Alphas least expected it, or Scott and Derek had actually thrown in the towel. Not fucking likely. Not Scott. That idiot would barrel through a room without any sort of plan or knowing where enemies lay in wait in order to protect those he loved. Out of the scant people Stiles knew, Scott was the least selfish, the least hesitant when it came to sacrifice.

The unsung hero.

The Superman to Stiles’ Lois Lane.

Stiles just had to survive whatever torture the Alphas deemed acceptable as an _incentive_. Survive. Do nothing. Stay quite. Don’t move. Survive. Don’t give Kali any more motivation to hurt him because he couldn’t keep his sarcasm to himself. Lucky for him he was still gagged. She was already chomping on the bit for another opportunity to torment Stiles further.

She had the steel pipe in her hand again, her eyes shining with a lustful promise of bruising Stiles and reveling in making him bleed. Hips swaying, nails clicking, tongue wetting her lips; she tried for some weird sexy evil, but just came off downright vicious and ugly and Stiles couldn’t hold back a violent recoil as she sauntered closer. Even as he braced for impact, he couldn’t fully anticipate the searing, blinding pain when she swung the pipe at his broken leg.

He screamed, voice cracking on sobs he had no way of controlling; the pain was red hot and burning him up from the inside. Desperation to escape the torture had him scrambling, blunt nails scraping along the concrete trying to get away from Kali, but she followed. Planted her bare foot on his chest and shoved him flat on his back, pinning him like a bug, and tore the gag from his mouth. He sucked in a huge breath, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“No…no…”

Stiles kicked at her, chained hands held up in a poor attempt at self-defense. He was going to die. Kali would kill him before his friends made it. She would beat him to a bloody pulp in spite of Deucalion’s previous warning and there'd be nothing left to save. Stiles choked out another sob.

“Scream, pet. Scream for your friends to save you. Do it… _scream_!”   

Her nails dug into the soft flesh of his calf, reopening the wounds from before, and he gave her what she wanted. He emptied his lungs with a long and pitiful scream. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t stop it. Any trace of pride he had left vanished as he pleaded in a blubbering stream of senseless sounds, screaming for help that he prayed would come soon.

Anything to make the pain stop, he would do anything.     

Kali froze with her claws still embedded in Stiles’ muscle, her gaze distant as she sniffed the air. Her face slowly cracked wide with a pleased grin.

“He’s here,” she said through a purr, straightening her spine.   

Frantic eyes searched for Scott, but instead Stiles spotted Derek approaching from the shadows. Relief poured over Stiles in a turbulent wave, a breath shuddering out of him. Barely caught his breath when Ennis snatched him up by the scruff of his neck, lifting him several feet off the ground and shifting his vantage in a dizzying turn. Panic had Stiles squirming with frightened shrieks like a rabbit trapped in the jaws of a predator. Pain shot through his leg and his eyes watered, stealing his air. He felt the slow trickle of blood like ants crawling on his skin.

Terror spiked to a new level of hysteria when Ennis dangled him over the edge of the second story terrace; way too many feet of free-falling space beneath Stiles’ shoes.

If Ennis decided to let go...

Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles gulped, chained hands grasping Ennis’ arm with a painful, white-knuckle force. With the rush of blood pounding in his ears, he still heard Derek’s distinct voice resonating like a small vibration through his bones. He snapped his eyes open wide and saw Derek standing closer to Ennis, crouched and anxious for a fight. Boyd, Isaac, and Cora flanked Kali and the twins.  

No Scott, though. Where the hell was Scott?

Eyes shining red, Derek fixed his hooded glare on Ennis and bared his teeth. Hands clenched, muscle fibers tense with a slight tremor. Only thing holding him back from clawing his way through the line of Alphas and ripping Deucalion’s throat out was Ennis literally dangling Stiles’ life over a ledge.   

Derek snarling out, “No,” snapped Stiles’ attention away from the impending doom beneath him. Whatever Deucalion had said to get that response, no doubt it had to do with joining his red-eyed band of merry wolves. It was obvious by the way Ennis gave Stiles a firm shake that Deucalion wasn’t pleased with Derek’s answer. Kali licked her lips, hunger wild on her face as she bounced on the balls of her feet.

Stiles shrieked, blunt nails digging in Ennis’ arm as he swallowed his heart back down his throat. He swept his eyes around and caught Derek’s stare, alpha eyes bright with anger, but his brow furrowed and mouth set in a grim line. Furious and worried at once. The look curdled in Stiles’ gut.

Tearing his gaze away from Stiles seemed like a monumental effort, as if Derek was frightened that was the last he’d see of Stiles alive. Still, he stood his ground with Deucalion and didn’t fold like a flimsy chair. He squared his shoulders, hands balled into fists.

“You trespassed onto my territory.” Derek’s face deadpanned, but his eyes darkened and voice rumbling. “You knew my mother, Deucalion. You were allies…friends. You once respected her and the Hale territory, what happened?”

“So I did, but I signed a treaty with Talia. Not you. Now that she is gone, the Hale pack is no longer revered as it once was. Her legacy died without a shred of honor,” Deucalion said with a simple shrug. “I am here to rectify that blunder.”  

Derek narrowed his eyes and Stiles could hear the creak of bones as Derek squeezed his fists at his side. Despite the obvious insult directed at Derek, he didn’t let that show on his face. If it were Stiles standing there with jabs thrown at him about his leadership or family, he would’ve tossed the first punch without a second to consider the consequences. And that set Derek apart. He could be a dick more often than not, but he had restraint. Far more than anyone gave him credit for.  

“An alpha can no longer retain respect by benevolence. We are part of a new age now. I’m giving you an opportunity to stand with me and take charge of your territory the way it should be.” 

“No,” Derek ground out, nostrils flaring. “You’re wrong. I have loyalty from my pack and that is something you gain from respecting your pack in turn. I will not lead them through fear, not like you do. Stop wasting your time and leave. I’m not giving you what you want.”

Deucalion pursed his lips, head tilting toward Stiles. That didn’t bode well with Stiles. The power hungry alpha considering the pawn like a delicacy meat ready to feast on. He wanted to cower into a dark hole, far far away from Deucalion’s attention.  

“I expected as much,” he said and tapped a steady rhythm against the handle of his cane. The _thumpthump_ felt like a drum pounding and piercing in Stiles’ ears with impending disaster just seconds away from exploding.

Ennis’ grip loosened and Stiles’ stomach bottomed out as gravity’s force took over. He heard Derek yelling as he choked on his own scream, squeezing his eyes shut hard enough for white dots to dance across his lids. He tensed for the inevitable plunge, but it never came. Took a fumbling moment to realize he wasn’t falling after all; Scott had caught him by the short chain between his wrists.

Stiles wheezed, so unbelievably thankful for Scott’s perfect timing, he could only let out little squeaks of joy. Tensed muscles deflated with relief regardless of the sting lancing through his arms from the strain. He could handle it a hell of a lot better than being a bloody, pulpy pancake on the pavement below.     

Scott grunted, face red with the exertion of holding Stiles over the edge.

“You good… you got my hand?”

Nodding, Stiles swallowed his organs back down, and grabbed Scott’s hands as his friend lifted and pulled him back onto solid ground. Every inch stabbed excruciating shards through Stiles’ leg, and he couldn’t hold back the hitched cries and fresh tears. His entire body felt like an open wound with each little brush of air or touch infuriating exposed nerves.

“There’s too much blood, man... and your leg is—shit, man. This is bad.” Scott’s voice cracked, hands shaking as he lingered on Stiles’ damaged leg.

“M’okay…”

Stiles batted at Scott’s hands and tried to get a better view of the chaos unfolding around them; his attention steered toward the sounds of growling and flesh tearing. Derek’s pack was losing, terribly. If Scott didn’t join the fight, they’d harm more than their pride and Stiles wouldn’t be the only one not walking out of there.   

Before Stiles could open his mouth and say a word, Scott had siphoned the pain. Stiles gasped, eyes popping open wide and then falling shut. Going from every nerve ending on fire to painless bliss tossed his sensory cortex into shock and he passed out.

 

000000

 

The moment Stiles woke up in a white-washed room in the hospital, he tried every effort to get out. Hobbled by a leg brace and hooked to an IV of fluids and painkillers hadn’t deterred his mission from trying to sneak out and find Scott. Damn obnoxious beeping after pulling the catheter from his hand and John sleeping in the chair by the bed, but all be damned if Stiles had to stay in that bed any longer than he already had.

Three times he had limped precariously toward the exit and each attempt he was dragged back and instructed to stay put. After that, his dad had threatened to cuff him to the bed and hadn’t left Stiles’ side since. Stiles was left with little else to do but aimlessly switch from soap operas to infomercials while checking his phone for new messages every thirty seconds. He’d chewed his nails down to the quick until they bled. Then resorted to picking at the bandages on his wrists and creating fresh scabs.

John had hovered like any suspicious, concerned parent would after their child had been kidnapped. On top of Stiles’ own anxiety, he had to contend with his dad watching his every move, afraid to let Stiles out of his sight. Not that Stiles didn’t appreciate the attention, but it had been suffocating at times. With John under the impression the kidnapping spawned from a group of guys trying to get at him for a past arrest by roughing up his son, he had every right to switch on the over-protective parent mode button. Even had a deputy stationed outside the door and another outside the building.  

Every safeguard was in place and for a good reason. At least the truth about the supernatural had remained in the dark, but that didn’t mean the Alphas wouldn’t try again. Scott had supplied his own protection for Stiles with Boyd camped out on the roof of the hospital.

Scott’s mom had come to the rescue on filling in details where Scott had failed with his inability to lie with a straight face. John had seemed to fall for the hoodlum kidnapping story, but the guilt of lying to his dad kept eating away at Stiles’ conscience. Sooner or later he’d have to spill the beans.

Much to Mama McCall’s chagrin she pressured for sooner while Stiles opted for later. She didn’t let up on the stink eye each time she had visited his room, silently barraging the longer he left John in the dark. Stiles simply ignored her aside from when she came and relayed the latest status on the queue line for a CT scan.

Standard exam had showed no neurological effects from the multiple blows to the head – aside from a monster headache – but the CT scan would rule out any possibility of swelling or damage. With the waiting time longer than normal, they had set up Stiles in a room until his turn. In the meantime Melissa had attended to his other wounds with the lines around her mouth and eyes tight.  

Over fifty stiches to seal up the puncture wounds. They couldn’t plaster his leg in a cast and supplied a large brace for easy access to the bandages. The breaks in his leg had been clean – miraculously – and required no surgery, but tissue damage forced the inevitable for physical therapy sessions, looming on the horizon like a dark cloud.

If Stiles ever wanted to play Lacrosse again, he’d follow the prescribed lines closely.

Hell, he didn’t care so much about Lacrosse at that point. All he wanted was to walk – shuffle, crawl, whatever – out of that god-forsaken hospital and find his friends.

He needed answers.

He needed to know his friends were okay.

All he had to go by were nibbles of information, if they could even be considered that. Other than hearing Scott was injured – a wound caused by one of the Alphas that wasn’t healing – and Derek was missing after taking a fatal plunge with Ennis over the terrace ledge, Stiles had nothing. _Missing._ How the hell did that happen? What happened to his body? Why wasn’t anyone telling Stiles anything other than vague snippets that made little sense no matter which way Stiles tried putting the puzzle pieces together.

With little word from Scott, Stiles couldn’t not think the worst. His paranoia and hyper sensitive anxiety went into overload. He was fraying at the edges, his anxiety reaching an all-time high. Levels he hadn’t felt since his mother died.

Derek MIA sent Stiles into a constant state of panic; he couldn’t stop fidgeting and complaining about his helplessness and texting Derek like some overprotective mother with no answers in return.

If Derek was dead, Stiles would never forgive himself.

He couldn’t help placing all the blame on his own shoulders. If he hadn’t been used as bait maybe this would have never happened. Perhaps the outcome would have leant more toward his friends’ favor rather than the Alphas. He was a distraction his friends couldn’t afford in a fight and he hated being that center of weakness to them.

Maybe not such a bad idea to start carrying a gun or some sort of weapon laced with wolf’s bane. Taking one from John’s gun safe in the garage was so far out of the question that Stiles got whiplash even thinking about it. Not when John kept a meticulous log of the inventory locked inside. One bullet out of place and the atomic mushroom cloud would explode within the Stilinski household.

Argent had a stockpile of weapons, though.

Stiles made a mental note to ask once he was released from his current hell.

Sighing, Stiles forced his hand to put down his cell phone after yet another failed attempt at getting some sort of solid reply from anyone other than monosyllables. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at his dad snoozing in the chair positioned between the bed and the door.

That’s _convenient_.

Stiles rolled his eyes and contemplated crawling out the window. With the room on the first floor, it wouldn’t have been that bad of a climb, but then he glared at the cumbersome brace on his leg and slumped back against the pillows. No way would he have made it out without alerting his dad or even the entire staff on the ground floor; he was clumsy enough without the stupid brace encasing his leg from ankle to thigh.

Letting out another exasperated breath, Stiles resigned with watching his dad sleep. He seemed at peace for once. At least one of them was getting rest after the last forty-eight hours. Stiles had tried, but either the burdening worry or the insistent itching from the stitches kept his mind in an endless loop of consciousness.

“Do I have drool on my face?”

John’s gruff voice startled Stiles out of his unblinking stare. One eye cracked open and peered at Stiles before John opened the other eye and let a small, tired smile touch his lips.

“What’s up, son?”

“So here’s the scoop on General Hospital. Dante tells Lulu not to share her beliefs with Laura. Jordan and Valeria find clear fingerprints on the tainted vial. Jordan asks Andre for his help on a case. Nina tells Curtis of a disturbing conversation between her and Franco. Curtis questions Nina about Franco. Oh, and everyone wonders what danger awaits them,” Stiles said with one breath. He heaved in a lungful and added, “I’m going insane. Soap operas have taken over my brain. Get me out of here before I lose the last bit of my sanity and I start running around naked and screaming.”

John straightened and stretched his arms high above his head. The smile stretched further. “No, you won’t. Once we get the release order after the CT scan, we’ll be out of here.”

Leave it to good ole’ Pops to end that little tantrum. Stiles huffed and picked at the hem of the blanket, letting a few silent moments drag before he opened his mouth to start up again. The look John shot at him shut his mouth with a loud click.

“How’s your pain?”

Stiles shrugged, but before he could comment the power went off in the building, startling them. Almost instantly, the backup generators switched on but only supplying power to monitoring equipment and not the overhead lighting.

The Alphas were involved, they had to be. With no storms in the forecast, it was either them, another supernatural threat, or just a faulty circuit. Stiles voted against the latter. Nothing happened as a coincidence any more. The supernatural seemed to flock around the building like honey, as if it had a huge blinking neon sign over its roof announcing: _Come all ye supernatural creatures of the night, we have prime pickings for your ravenous blood lust!_

John shot out of the chair and headed for the door, but he hesitated with his hand hovering on the knob. No doubt warring with leaving Stiles alone or not. A part of Stiles didn’t want him to go, but if the Alphas came for him then John would have been collateral damage that Stiles refused to accept.  

“You could always leave me your backup pistol if you’re so worried…” Stiles said, flashing a toothy grin.

John scoffed and pointed a finger at him. “You stay put. Officer Jones is right outside the door if you need him. I won’t be gone long.”

“Sure, fine. It’s not like I would get far even if I tried, right?”

“Right.”

The door softly clicked shut behind John. Stiles pushed out a shaky breath and sent a quick SOS text to Scott and – just in case – Derek. Rising panic had his flight reaction flaring up like a nasty itch. But running would have been far more embarrassing and painful than his earlier attempts caught by the nurses and his dad.

In the end, he elected for pulling the IV out again and hiding along the wall by the door with a metal supply tray held up and ready to strike at whatever baddie opened the door. Not that it would’ve done much damage, but that little bit of hope Stiles refused to let go may buy him some time to shuffle a fair distance away before claws dug into him again.

It was every bit of effort that counted, he tried convincing himself.  

Stiles waited on bated breath, holding the edges of the tray with a white-knuckle grip until his hands shook and the strain radiated down his arms and between his shoulders. Breath caught when Officer Jones shouted at someone followed by his boots pounding down the hall. So much for not abandoning the super high priority mission of protecting the Sheriff’s son. Alone with only a flimsy piece of tin as backup. Fucking terrific. Stiles rolled his eyes at the lunacy of his current situation, but didn’t let up on his stance to fight.

Another yell echoed further away, along with a loud crash, no doubt putting Officer Jones out of commission and Stiles winced with a twinge of guilt. Yet another unfortunate, innocent liability in the midst of a supernatural war.   

A blur of motion flashed along Stiles’ peripheral and he spun around, swinging the tray with all his might. Metal collided with a solid wall of flesh, eliciting a startled cry from the shadow before the weapon was snatched from Stiles’ grip and tossed aside. He wildly swung his fists as the shadow crowded him and grabbed at his arms to deter further pitiful attempts at fighting.   

“Stiles, _stop_! Dammit, it’s me…”

Derek’s harsh whisper grated in Stiles’ ears and he immediately stilled, heart pounding in his neck like a wild thing trying to break free. He heaved in a lungful, blinking hard at Derek, disbelieving.  

“What the hell, Derek? What the _hell_? What happened to you? Where were you? I thought you were hurt or dead or… Scott said you fell and— Did you crawl through the window?”  

“Shhhh,” Derek forced out through an unsteady breath. “Kali and the twins are in the building. Ennis didn’t make it and Kali is out for blood. Scott and the pack are running her off.”  

“Her apparent hard-on for me is beyond unsettling now,” Stiles stated, frowning.

Derek didn’t reply, focused more on listening for any sounds outside the room.

“Whoa, wait… What about my dad? She might go after him instead.”

Panic spiked and Stiles started for the door with the urgency to find John. Derek cursed under his breath and pulled Stiles back, almost bringing him off his feet and he ended up colliding into Derek’s chest when the bum leg threw Stiles off balance. A small hiss of pain erupted from Derek and Stiles froze. He noticed Derek was trembling; the hand holding onto his forearm caked with blood.

“What’s wrong? Why are you shaking? Shit, Derek. Shit. Shit. You’re bleeding. Is that your blood? It is your blood. Oh my God… I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“It’s nothing. And your dad’s fine. Melissa diverted him.”

Derek contradicted his own words when he swayed on his feet and stumbled back a step, his hand flying out for something steady to hold him upright. Stiles’ arm became that anchor. With a clumsy hop-skip, Stiles helped Derek sit on the floor and he shifted down alongside Derek with his legs stretched out. His injured leg was throbbing, but he pushed down the ignore button and put all his attention on Derek.

The idiot came here with a complete disregard for his well-being to keep Stiles from harm. Stiles pursed his lips. He had clearly underestimated Derek and his self-sacrificial honor. He couldn't figure out if he was irritated or grateful.

Moonlight streaming through the cracks in the blinds exposed more of Derek’s injuries. Deep scratches all over made it seem like a meat shredder had a field day with him – wounds that a human wouldn’t have survived.

Good thing he wasn’t human, but that didn’t deter Stiles’ worry one bit.

His hand dropped when he realized he was inches from grazing his fingers around a nasty cut on Derek’s cheek. Why he felt the need to mother hen the alpha, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop worrying. He cared. Dammit, he cared about all of them and couldn’t stand to see any of his friends hurt. Especially when those injuries occurred because of him. 

“To hell it’s nothing, Derek. Don’t lie to me. You fell over a hundred feet. You should be a freakin’ pancake. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

“I’m fine. It’ll heal. Stop talking,” Derek said, closing his eyes.  

“Why did you come here before taking care of yourself? Jesus, Derek… don’t you die on me like this.”

Eyebrow twitching, Derek gave Stiles a longsuffering look.

“I won’t die, you idiot. You texted me a 9-1-1, what did you expect? Besides, it looks worse than it feels,” he said, brushing off Stiles’ concerned, unconvinced glare. “Wounds made by alphas take longer to heal. I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

He looked at Stiles with an odd and unexpected tenderness that left his jaw hanging.

“I’m more concerned about you,” Derek added softly, his fingers brushing lightly along the bloom of bruises on Stiles’ face. “If I hadn’t made it in time...” His face darkened with a grimace as he lowered his stare to the brace on Stiles’ leg. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it sooner. We didn’t know what sort of trap they might’ve put out for us, but I shouldn’t have hesitated as long as I did. Kali could’ve killed you.”

“But she didn’t. Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault the baddies see me as juicy bait. I can’t help it that I’m so delicious,” Stiles said, playing a smirk on his lips and gently nudged Derek in the arm. “Albeit a few cuts and broken bones between the two of us, she didn’t win. That’s all that matters, right?”

A smile twitched at the corner of Derek’s mouth and more of the tension melted away in the small moment of mutual silence that settled between them. Stiles let the adrenaline seep from his bones in an exhausted breath and all the aches and pains flared. The fatigue hit him like an unanticipated downpour, weighing down on his limbs with the effect of carrying hundreds of pounds of lead.

“Thanks for coming for me, though.”

Derek’s brow did that scrunchy-dance thing in silent puzzlement before he nodded. He gave Stiles a perceptive look, a quiet understanding that abandoning anyone wasn’t an option – even for unofficial members of the pack. And no matter the amount of times they butted heads or irritated one another. Without admitting it aloud, Stiles and Derek did consider the other a friend. Someone they respected and trusted and would sacrifice for.

“Any time,” Derek whispered.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the prompts I will be posting. Thanks for reading, commenting and also for those who gave me the prompts. I enjoyed writing each one! :D


End file.
